


The Devil's Own

by WinterSoldierfics (SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Avengers - Freeform, Avengers Assemble - Freeform, Black Widow - Freeform, Black Widow Program, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Captain America - Freeform, Cold War, Espionage, F/M, Hydra, Marvel - Freeform, Natasha Romanoff - Freeform, Red Room, SHIELD, Spies, The Avengers - Freeform, The Black Widow, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, buckynat - Freeform, red square, winter soldier - Freeform, winterdiow, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop/pseuds/WinterSoldierfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Natasha Romanoff, aka The Black Widow. Your former lover The Winter Soldier is living at Avenger Tower. He doesn’t remember you, or your torrid history, and it is making your life very complicated. </p><p>The Winter Soldier x Reader (Black Widow)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part 1: Natasha Romanova

_Present Day_

You rolled over and peered at the small red digits on your clock. Red like the blood flowing through your veins, red like your hair, red like the country that you hailed from. You closed your eyes, but sleep didn’t come for you. It was like this every night. You would lay in bed for hours until you finally drifted off, but tonight, the comforting arms of slumber were even more elusive. You glanced back at the clock, back at the blood red numbers. It was 1:47 am.

  
  


Things had been up in the air the last few weeks at the tower. Hectic, chaotic, but mostly, _complicated_. You knew this was a new scenario for everyone, since the amnesiac soldier had arrived, and that things were hard. Hard for Steve and hard for Bucky, but deep down, in a place that no one knew about, things were extremely hard for yourself as well. You shook your head slightly. It was strange, how quickly you’d taken to outwardly calling him Bucky, but in your mind, that would never be his name.  _His name was James…_ You thought back to cold, dark times;  _cold dark nights_ , when he’d had no name. He’d been the Soldier, and only the Soldier, and despite all of your trained detachment, it hadn’t seemed right for a man to have no name and so you’d given him one.  _You’d called him James_. 

Not in front of anyone, of course. But he’d been James to you all those years ago in Russia, in the alleys and the dark and the underground, and when he’d arrived at the tower and you’d learned his real name was James Buchanan Barnes, you’d had to hide your surprise. He didn’t know you now; he hadn’t known you in a long time and he didn’t know that he ever had, and you thought it would be easiest if you kept it that way.

  
  


You sighed, looking back at the clock, the numbers mocking you with their existence. Only three more minutes had passed. You rolled out of bed, you knew you weren’t going to get any rest at the moment. The spectre of the Winter Soldier was looming large over you right now. He wouldn’t let you sleep.

  
  


Your feet found the floor, and you padded across your room, down the hall of your apartment, the carpet soft beneath your toes, and out onto the balcony. Your rooms were up high in Avenger Tower; a bit higher than most of the other apartments, but not as high as Tony and Pepper’s penthouse. You craved solitude, and so Tony had given you the first new flat on the floor above Cap, Falcon, and now Bucky. You wrapped your thin robe tighter around yourself against the chilly air of the new spring, and leaned against the railing, taking in the view of the city in the early morning hours. The lights never really went out in New York. The traffic died down a bit, and the businesses closed for a while, but the lights were always there. For a creature born of shadows, you found this disconcerting.

  
  


A noise from the balcony below you and to the left took your attention, and you looked down through the darkness. James,  _no, Bucky_ , was down there. You saw the faint glow of the end of a cigarette, before his eyes travelled up to you and he cooly hid it behind him and stubbed it out into a planter. He smoked and everyone knew it but he tried to hide it all the same. When he’d come to the tower, when Steve and Sam had found him, broken and strung out from coming off of the benzos or whatever drugs Hydra had him on for so many years to keep him docile and forgetful and calm, to make him both lose his mind and keep him from losing it all at once, he’d already taken up the unfortunate habit. You knew the nicotine did nothing to him physically; it couldn’t possibly, what with the serum pumping through his veins. Mentally you guessed it calmed him. It was a terrible habit and self destructive. You weren’t really sure why he did it. Maybe it had a placebo effect. But it wasn’t your place to judge. The man had been through a lot.

  
  


He hastily got rid of the evidence, gave you a small wave, and retreated into his apartment. You continued to watch the emptiness of his balcony. That was really all there was between you; an uncomfortable emptiness, an almost tangible wanting that you were sometimes sure he felt as well. You couldn’t blame him for the lack of interaction, and to be honest, it was a lot better than him trying to kill you like he’d nearly accomplished a few times before. But, despite all the years in between when he had been James and had known you, and now that he was Bucky again and you were just a woman named Natasha and he thought he’d just met you six weeks ago… the emptiness hurt. You wondered when you’d gone soft. Emotional attachments had been drilled out of you from a very young age. You sought physical relationships when you wanted them and left feelings out of it all together and that was the way you liked it. However, the arrival of the Soldier,  _James_ , Bucky, whoever he was now, had you in a state of confusion and you didn’t like that. You were a woman used to being in total control of her body and her mind. You kept everything sharp like a weapon. But lately you were feeling blurred around the edges and distorted,  and you knew it had everything to do with the dark soldier living one floor beneath you and the history you shared, but only you remembered.

  
  


You went back in to once again do battle with the night and the red numbers on your clock.

* * *

  
  


Your name was Natasha Romanova, Natasha Romanoff to the english speakers, and you’d defected from your home country of Russia seven years ago. Shield had sent an agent named Clint Barton to kill you after you’d dispatched several of their top agents trying to infiltrate the infamous Black Widow Program and it’s training facility, the Красная комната (Krasnaya Komnata)  _the_ _Red Room_.

  
  


You’d been born on November 22, 1982 to a schoolteacher mother and a railroad worker father. By the age of five your intellect had gained you some notoriety in your neighborhood and in your school in Moscow. Your parents had died in a car accident that same year, whether it had been arranged by the government or not you would never know, and you’d been taken in by the Black Widow Program, raised fully and completely to be a spy. Twenty one years later, Clint had been ready to kill you; he’d come close, but he had been your unlikely savior that cold day in late March. He’d held out one last chance at humanity, dangled it in front of you, and you’d reached with weary hands and a wearier heart to grasp it. You’d never thanked him; he’d never needed thanks, never expected it. He knew it was there, as unspoken as it would remain. He’d become your best friend. His children were your God children now, his wife like a little sister, and Shield had made excellent use of such an asset as yourself. It had taken you a very long time to undo the majority of the manipulation and brainwashing that had happened in the Red Room; you knew that you could never truly be rid of it. The days of espionage, the lies, the deceit, they weren’t over. They would never be over. Those traits were as much a part of you as your dark eyes and red hair, as your stealth and wit, your soft touch and steely gaze. But since the day you’d left, you’d found more of yourself than you had ever hoped that you could. More of the rest of yourself. THe Program and the Red Room had not been rife with opportunities to develop a sense of self beyond  _the Black Widow_. In the years since that fateful day when Clint had chosen mercy, you had become an entire person. The journey of self discovery that you’d began on the snowy streets of Eastern Europe over a decade ago, some of it spurred by the Winter Soldier and with him by your side, had come full circle. The quiet moments in your life had changed from a disciplined stillness to a kind of strained peace. The time spent with your teammates, who you now considered friends, had gone from a chore to a necessity that you looked forward to. You’d been all over the world, dismantling the last remnants of the scattered KGB and the broken down Black Widow Program, even forming alliances with the newer Russian government, and later battling Hydra cells splintered everywhere. You’d forged a strange but ultimately solid and true friendship with Captain America. When Steve had come out of the ice three years ago, you’d been a founding member of the Avengers. When Shield had fallen to Hydra a little while ago, you’d helped him pull through and do what was right; you’d found yourself an unwitting pillar of virtue. And then his best friend had risen from the ashes like a dark phoenix, nearly killing both of you in the process, and ripping open the protective layer that had rested over your heart for so long.

  
  


Your shoulder still ached sometimes from that last bullet you’d caught, courtesy of the Winter Soldier. You’d have liked it to have been the only time he’d shot you, but it wasn’t. There was that time in Odessa, too. Your former lover had nearly ended your life twice since Hydra had ended whatever meaning the two of you had ever hoped to share. And he’d done it with cold, steely eyes that had looked at you as though you could have been anyone; as though they had never gazed upon you before, let alone held you in their light for countless hours on and off the battlefield.

  
  


You shook your head to clear it and looked down into your coffee cup. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Just as you’d known would happen, you’d tossed and turned, and when sleep had laced it’s tentative fingers through your consciousness, you’d dreamed of long ago days and safe houses; tents on icy mornings and underground nightclubs and targets; alleys and guns and marks; and finally skin and scars and lips and fingertips grasping in the dark of nights that had long since come to pass.  _Events that you needed to forget.  Events that you had forgotten, until Bucky had decided to show up again._

  
  


You looked around the dining room. It was very early still; Steve sat in the corner reading the newspaper. He was the only person you knew who still got an actual newspaper and didn’t just read it on their phone. He was deep in some article, though, and didn’t seem to notice you. You were relatively sure you were hiding your emotions and the truth excellently- that was what you did. You’d been trained to be a spectacular liar, and you used that ability when you felt it was necessary, and right now it was definitely necessary. None of the team needed to know that you had a history with Bucky; Bucky was remembering a decent amount about his life before Hydra and before and during World War 2, but he wasn’t recalling much from his time in captivity and that suited you fine. If he ever did remember, which you doubted very much that he would with any clarity, you would cross that bridge when you came to it.

  
  


You got up and put your plate in the dishwasher in the kitchen. The only person who knew was Clint, and he had said nothing to you about it since Bucky had shown up at the tower, and you knew he would tell no one. You never talked about it and he never asked and that was how it went. You’d confided in Clint one time, years ago, over a few too many whiskeys after a mission in a smoky bar in Berlin. You’d told him about your former lover with the metal arm and then Odessa and how Hydra turned everything into a monster eventually. And when Clint found out you’d been shot that day on the overpass, his reaction had been simple.

  
  


“Was it him?” He’d asked you, raising one eyebrow, his fingers minutely grasping towards his bow, trying not to seem overprotective and like he was about to jump out of his seat and go hunting.

  
  


“Yeah.” You’d replied shortly. You’d been cleaning your guns, all of your guns, which was what you did when something was bothering you. The sling you’d been forced to wear had gotten in the way of this and it had taken all of your obedience not to remove it altogether.

  
  


“Can I kill him?” He’d asked in turn. He knew you and therefore knew your tells and why you were so fastidiously polishing four Glocks, two Remingtons, and three Smith and Wesson’s.

  
  


“Probably not.” You’d replied, picking up your favorite, a Barretta. And that had been the end of it.

  
  


You could count on Clint to take it to his grave. Because that was precisely where you were going with it. To your grave.

* * *

  
  


_Moscow, 9 September, 2002_

  
  


The man was waiting for you when you returned from your latest trip abroad. Trip was a gratuitous term, really. You’d been sent to assassinate a foreign attache, and you’d completed your assignment early and been back to your small flat overlooking the Красная площадь, (Krasnaya Ploshad)   _Red Square_ , much sooner than expected, but somehow Fedorov was still at your door when you’d approached. You wondered if the young messenger had been waiting there long; if he’d been waiting since you’d left, perhaps? You really weren’t sure what protocol was regarding him. You climbed the spiral steps and walked towards the lanky brunette. He moved from his position; he’d been leaning against the wall reading a book at the top of the staircase and waiting.

  
  


“Natasha, welcome back.” He fell into step beside you.

  
  


“How did they know I’d be back so soon?” You asked, drawing a key from your pocket. “Why didn’t they call?”

  
  


Fedorov shrugged, slipping the small book into the pocket of his trousers. “They sent me this morning. Told me to wait until you showed up. I’m glad you were early. I knew you weren’t expected back until tomorrow and I really didn’t want to sleep on your porch.”

  
  


You gave him a small smile, unlocking the door and letting both of you into the small foyer. You made a lot of money working as a spy, but you spent little on your accommodations, choosing instead to save it. You weren’t sure why; in reality, you probably wouldn’t live to see retirement, so you had no real reason to save, but you did anyways. Your only display of excess was the location of your tiny apartment; a view of the Square, even from a few blocks away and several floors up, was pricey.

  
  


“They need me to come in, then?” You doffed your coat and hung it in the closet.

  
  


Fedorov nodded. “Yes. As soon as possible. A new assignment. It’s a big one. No phone calls. Too risky. They have a partner for you.”

  
  


You glared at him. “I work alone. They know that.”

  
  


He shrugged again. “I know. But they want you to work with this man and I think you’ll find him worthy.”

  
  


“It’s not another Widow?” You raised a brow. That was strange. The Widows were rarely partnered with outsiders. Little trust was placed on anyone not within the Program.

  
  


Fedorov shook his head. “No.”

  
  


“Who is it?”

  
  


“An assassin from Hydra. They call him the Winter Soldier.”

  
  


“The Winter Soldier doesn’t exist. Nice try. Who is it really?”

  
  


“He’s not  _supposed_  to exist.  _But I saw him_ , Natasha. If anyone is the Winter Soldier, it’s this guy.”

  
  


“How so?” You put your hands on your hips. There was no way anyone could live up to the fabrications that were told around the Russian Underground, the Dark Net, and the entire intelligence community, about the supposed boogeyman known as The Winter Soldier.

  
  


“Well for one, he has a metal arm.”

  
  


“You know I’m not an idiot, right?”

  
  


“Yes, ma’am. But I’m not lying.” Fedorov looked shaken. “He has a metal arm, and eyes like the sea on a cloudy day.”

  
  


“From that description, I don’t know whether you want to sleep with the man, or are scared shitless of him, Fedorov.”

  
  


“I don’t really know, either, Natasha.” Fedorov stood in your foyer that day, an uncertain look on his face. He’d either seen an Angel or a Devil, you couldn’t be sure. A ghost, maybe. The man, the Soldier, had him shaken. “They want you in as soon as possible.”

  
  


You set a stack of mail back on the side table, and pulled your jacket back out of the closet. “I guess we’d best be on our way, then.” You followed Fedorov out the door, back down the spiral stairs, and out onto the streets. He’d come in a car; a low black one, shiny and brand new and classy as though belonging to a foreign diplomat. He opened the door for you and you climbed into the back; he shut it and took his place in front, driving you to the compound. The roles you played were various and the hats you wore were many. Today you were an important person, being fetched from your home and driven about in style by a valet. Tomorrow you may be up to your ears in mud, fighting guerrillas in a hell hole somewhere and hoping to God your superiors didn’t decide you were suddenly expendable. You smirked a little, taking comfort in the knowledge that  _of all of the Widows in Russia, you were the best._

  
  


Fedorov drove you in through the gate, up to the front door, letting you out and driving away. You stepped up to the glass; bulletproof glass. Placing your hand in just the right place, and your eyes looking into a retinal scanner set in the middle, you were cleared to enter. Down a long, darkly tiled corridor. People in business suits were here and there; mostly clerical staff with little knowledge of who they really worked for. You made your way to lifts, and to the top floor. You stepped out into an office with long, low windows extending all around, providing a 360 degree view out of the building. Your handler, Ivan Petrovich, was sitting at a long table with three men. One wore a dark blue three piece suit and had graying hair. Another was obviously security; he wore black and had a shaved head, but had been required to remove all weapons upon entry to the facility. He stood uncomfortably off to the side, surveying the scene with the look of a shepherd who has lost their sheep. You mentally scowled, but remained stoic on the outside. You hated seeing an operative so dependent on their weapons that they were useless without them. This man clearly was.

  
  


The other stranger had his back to you, and he didn’t turn around as you approached, but you could tell by the subtle movements of his muscles, the twitch of his back and shoulders, that he was cognizant of every move that you made. His reflection in the window was watching you; his eyes beneath dark brows and darker hair trailing you with pupils that did not falter or waver, that had no shame or need to hide. Like the other, he had no weapons, but unlike him, he was a weapon in and of himself. A panther poised to strike.

  
  


You rounded the end of the table, and Ivan introduced you. “Agent Romanova, meet Alexander Pierce. He’s come to us with an… unusual assignment and your cooperation is necessary for the cause.” Ivan began. Just like Ivan. No pleasantries. He got down to business. You preferred it this way. Ivan wasn’t a pleasant man and you’d rather spend as little time speaking to him as possible.

  
  


You shook Mr. Pierce’s hand. He was a nice looking older man, pleasant looking almost. Definitely an American, which you found strange, but you would find out everything you needed to know later on. You turned towards the other man, the dangerous one, the one all in black who indeed had a metal arm, still sitting languidly at the table. “And who is this?” You asked, though due to your conversation with Fedorov only minutes prior, you already knew.

  
  


“This is the crowning achievement of Hydra.” Alexander Pierce smiled, a devilish grin that struck both fear into your heart and excitement to pump into your veins. “Agent Romanova, this is The Winter Soldier.” He gestured towards the sitting figure. You studied him. He had brown hair that reached his collarbones, hanging loose and wavy. A strong muscular build beneath a leather tactical vest, black pants, and sturdy lace up boots that had seen better days. His entire demeanor was that of an animal who was feigning relaxation. He was on edge, ready to kill at a moments notice, probably on the command of Alexander Pierce. He made no move, none at all, except his eyes. They came up and met yours, holding your gaze longer than they should have.

  
  


You felt your interest pique. You could tell that things were about to get interesting. This man, now  _he_ could be a formidable opponent if push came to shove. He was someone worth being afraid of.

  
Continued in “ **The Devil’s Own” part 2: James Buchanan Barnes**


	2. Part 2: James Buchanan Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky train together, and it becomes obvious to everyone that you’re a little too familiar with one another’s moves. You learn some interesting information while hiding in the pantry.

_ Present Day _

  
  


“ Natasha? Natasha?” A voice called to you, through the depths, the haze, the intensity of your focus. The punching bag before you was taking up all of your pent up energy and aggression of late, all of the sorrow and the anxiety and the late nights; letting it flow out of you like water from a chalice.  _ Kick, kick, jab. Punch, elbow, elbow, roundhouse. Duck, jab, jab, kick _ . “Natasha?” The voice called again, making it through this time. Your concentration broken, you turned, absentmindedly wiping the sweat from the back of your neck.

  
  


Steve stood behind you, hands on hips, an unreadable look in his eyes, his tank top and loose workout shorts hiding very little of his chiseled body. You were used to it; being around insanely toned men and women your whole life. The serum had made him a spectacular human being to behold and you’d spent a lot of time covertly studying his frame, his physiology, everything about him, analyzing every movement; but he wasn’t your type and it wasn’t a sexual thing. He had been interesting,  _ still was interesting _ , and you wanted to know all that you could about him. He looked you up and down. “You all right, Nat?”

  
  


You nodded. And then you lied. “Yeah. I’m great. Why?”

  
  


“ You’ve been beating on that bag for half an hour and I’ve been trying to get your attention for a good bit.” He looked at you strangely, a flash of concern behind those big, sincere eyes of his. He knew you second only to Clint, and you suspected he could tell when something was off. But he’d been so preoccupied with Bucky since his arrival at the tower, he may have not even have noticed that anything  _ was _ off until now. You were quiet and calculating and, frankly, a little intense and strange anyways. You made a mental note to do better at not losing yourself in your own head.

  
  


“ I’m fine. I just let my mind wander.”

  
  


“ Which you never do.” He pointed out uneasily.

  
  


“ That you know about.” You shrugged, glancing up at him and plastering a playful smile on your face. You needed to sell this. Steve and you were close, and James…  _ Bucky  _ was his best friend. Flirty quips and avoided conversations were going to have to be your staple for a while until you could figure out how to truly lock your history with the Soldier up and throw away the key. And move on. It wasn’t part of your history that you wanted out in the daylight, that you wanted to face; it was best left behind in the dark and the cold where it had started and where it had inevitably died.

  
  


“ Right. That I know about.” Steve shook his head and smiled back, seeming to be put at ease by your reaction. You relaxed as well, confident that he no longer believed anything to be wrong.

  
  


“ Did you need something? Why were you trying to get my attention?”

  
  


“ I can’t find Bucky. He’s not usually late but, you know how he gets sometimes. That whole losing time thing.” Steve trailed off, a fog passing over his golden features and for just a minute, you saw a flash of the man you knew Captain America to truly be; it was quickly replaced by his shining outer shell, sealed up and never revealing the broken and dark man that lived beneath. Bucky was meticulous in every aspect of his life, yet he had the habit of occasionally forgetting where he was and what he was doing, and getting lost in thought. It concerned everyone, but the doctors were fairly certain it was a result of the years of memory loss and drugs, and was hopefully psychological and would get better with time. “I need to find him; we’re about to start sparring. Could you go get him? He’s probably just in his apartment. I need to go drag Tony down from his lab. He’s trying to fix Friday but that can wait. He needs to be here.”

  
  


You nodded, following Steve out into the hallway. Friday was down; that would explain why no one could locate Bucky. “ _ Thanks Natasha _ .” You watched the towering form of your friend and confidante retreat down the hall the opposite way in a brisk jog. You turned and made your way the other direction, down a few corridors, up an elevator, and found yourself outside of Bucky’s door.

  
  


You didn’t want to be alone with him. You hadn’t even wanted  to go find him, but you couldn’t think of a real reason explaining why you couldn’t help Steve and go locate his friend, and so you’d chosen to just do it. But the emptiness between you and Bucky was palpable even in a group of people; it had been deafening on the few occasions where you had been secluded with one another. You could feel it all the way to your bones; a wanting in your soul and your body that wasn’t being met. You wondered if he felt anything; if time and space and circumstance had ripped you from him so completely, or if any small part remained. A nagging feeling, a heavy heart,  _ anything _ . You shook your head to clear it, rapping on the door. It opened under the pressure of your knuckles. “Bucky?” You called out. There was no answer from inside the dim apartment. You pushed the door open further. Beside it, on the interior table in the entryway, sat a gym bag and a bottle of water. It appeared he’d been ready to head over to practice and had stopped to do something; had gotten as far as the door, and even opening it, before going back in. You stepped silently into the room. The hall unfolded before you, straight through the apartment, past the dark leather sofa and over the soft tan carpeting, and out the sliding door to the balcony. You saw movement out there. You prowled through.

  
  


“ Bucky?” You called his name out softly, knowing that surprising a person like him, or one like yourself, was always a bad move. He turned away from the view of the city as you opened the glass door and exited onto his small patio. The glassy look he had in his eyes was replaced by recognition and he quickly hid the cigarette he had been smoking; a stealthy move, pulling it from his lips and tucking it down beside him, dropping it to the cement and covering it with the heel of his shoe, crushing it like he did so many other things in his life. As smooth as it was, he knew you had seen it. You looked into those cold eyes and saw something akin to shame. You wondered if it was the smoking or the murder he was shameful about, or if he’d somehow convinced himself to substitute feeling bad about the cigarettes for feeling bad about seventy years of assassinations and subterfuge. You probably would never know. _ He _ probably would never know.

  
  


“ Natasha.” He smiled at you, a forced smile, or so it seemed at first, but you saw that just a bit of it seemed to reach his eyes, and that shocked you, sent a jolt through you that you weren’t expecting. You pushed it aside. There was barely three feet between the two of you, but the distance felt like a chasm despite that small satisfaction.

  
  


“ Training already started.” You informed him. “Friday is down. I came to find you.” You gestured back into the apartment. “The door was open.”

  
  


He nodded. “Right. Sorry. I got sidetracked.” He nodded again. Words had always been used sparingly between the two of you. Neither of you said more than was necessary, and back when  _ everything that had happened had been happening between you _ , it had been a comfort that someone understood that you weren’t being short, you were just being specific. A lot of things had been left unsaid, simply because they weren’t necessary. Falling back into this pattern was so easy, but only you knew it was somewhere you had been before. “Let’s head out.” He opened the door for you and you slipped quietly past him, ever aware of the smell of his aftershave. You both went back through the apartment; he picked up his bag. For just a moment, at the front door, you felt him close behind you. He was waiting to follow you out. He didn’t know the affect such proximity had on you, you were sure of it. He reached around you to grasp the doorknob, his arm just brushing yours. Your mind went racing back, back, back; your skin pricked into goosebumps. You pulled yourself together, and exited.

* * *

  
  


The file said that Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes had been born on March 10th, 1917, to George and Winifred Barnes in Shelbyville, Indiana. He had met Steve Rogers as young teenager in Brooklyn and they had become fast friends and inseparable. Bucky had gotten most of the way through high school before leaving to begin work. The need to make money and put food on the table had been greater than the need to complete 12th grade. He’d always been more street smart than book smart anyway; a good looking young man, a hit with the ladies, a heartbreaker and a hard worker in his own right. In 1941, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he’d joined the United States Army. He’d been assigned to the 107th, became a member of the Howling Commandos, and had followed Captain Rogers into battle more times than anyone could count. He’d fallen from a train in the early months of 1945, believed dead, and had emerged from the ashes nearly 70 years later to try to murder Steve, as the Hydra assassin known as the Winter Soldier.

  
  


That was who the file said he was, anyway. It was a file you’d read several time; a large file, full of old Army commendations, report cards, love letters, journal entries, and medical records. You’d stolen a copy of the file and memorized all of it. You weren’t sure if it was because this James Buchanan Barnes was a man you may have loved at one point in time, or because he was a man who had shot you twice and nearly killed you, that you had what seemed to be an unhealthy obsession with learning all there was to know about him. But here you were, with all of this information floating in your head. And it got you no closer to really knowing the truth, or even knowing what truth you were after. Your truth was gone; fallen into the void when his memories of you had been erased.

  
  


The man standing across from you in the gymnasium wasn’t truly James Buchanan Barnes. Not the man written about in the file. That man had died seventy years ago, reborn into a cold and ruthless killing machine that had terrorized the world for seven decades from the shadows. In the early 2000’s, with the rise of the internet, cell phones, surveillance systems, and quick information, Hydra had decided that their most valuable assassin needed to also become someone who could play the spy game, and play it well. No longer did they need a heavy handed terminator to shoot first and never ask questions; in his place they tried to make a smooth operator, versatile in his surroundings and able to camouflage himself into any situation. They’d handed him over to Ivan and he had been partnered with you.

  
  


But that had been so long ago, and now you were in Avenger Tower, sparring with a man who thought he was a stranger. You were all doing a sort of tournament, winner fighting the next person, no superpowers allowed, which was fine because you didn’t happen to have any. Now it was Bucky against yourself, and you’d both been circling. You hadn’t fought Bucky, not even once, since he’d arrived. You’d trained excessively together 13 years before in Russia at the   Красная комната (Krasnaya Komnata- _ the  _ _ Red Room) _ and you had gotten so good that you had moved like oil and water over one another, a cacophany of blood and sweat but never tears; the tears had never come, not even later when they should have at the end once he was gone. You’d known each other like a person knows their own shadow; able to anticipate an action based on a look, a touch, a stop or start of a breath. You’d been so very in tune in those days, it had been nearly inevitable that you’d fallen into place beside one another in the bedroom as well as the battlefield.

  
  


Today you made the first move, lunging forward, planting a hand on the ground, flipping yourself over to fake an attack from above, but instead, landing low to the ground, sweeping a leg out to kick his feet out from under him. He seemed to sense this, lauching forward and  flipping over the leg you’d tried to trip him with, reaching towards you in an attempt to grab you as he landed on his feet and righted himself. You ducked, popping back up at the same time as he did. You sent a punch his way which he easily blocked, and he threw a right hook at you. You knocked his fist away, bringing your right foot up in a kick which he deflected, grabbing your leg and pushing it back down hard. You went with the momentum, twisting in the air and sending your left leg up, your foot towards his head. He caught your ankle in a fluid motion, ducking under the kick and continuing your twist, throwing it to the floor. Your mind worked like lightning. He’d done this before. He was anticipating everything you did as you were doing it, just as you were doing with him, just as you both had done all those long years ago. You followed through, spinning, bringing your back to him for a split second,  and he reached around and tried to grab you from behind. You tried to elbow him with both arms, back and up into his ribs, but as you thrust backwards, he fell back, dodging the elbows altogether.  _ The body knows what the mind does not. _

  
  


You became vaguely aware that the chatter in the room had died down, the longer the battle was going on and the more proficient, it became obvious the two of you were defending against one another much better than you should be. The entire gym fell silent, and all that you could hear was the sound of your heart and the breathing of the man opposite you. A strand of dark hair had fallen out of the haphazard bun he’d put it in, and he shoved it behind his ear; he seemed intent on this matchup. He moved with a virility and grace that you recognized and yearned for and missed. His eyes flashed and his nostrils flared a bit as he drew in ragged breaths between blocks and attacks. His white tank was now torn a bit. Thirteen years ago he had been a good decade older than you and though you’d aged together those two years, he hadn’t aged more than a year since then; you  _ had _ and now you chronologically matched, but you wore the years well and could still keep up with the raw physicality that had always pumped through his veins. You knew he didn’t remember and most likely never would, but his body remembered you. It knew every move you were going to make as you were still deciding to make it; every punch, kick, flip, and elbow was so burned into a memory he had long since forgotten. An invisible tether still linked you together, through the distance, the years, the memory wipes, the murder, and the revenge. You moved as one, and everyone noticed, and he noticed, and you noticed. He seemed confused but still fought, calculating and focused. You buckled down;  _ you weren’t done yet _ .

  
  


He grabbed one of your elbows; you tore it free, ducking below the left arm you knew was coming, then the right, then the left trying to clothesline you to the ground. You threw yourself to the side, sprung back up off of your hands and planted your feet into his chest, knocking him off balance. Thinking that you’d finally landed a blow that he had not expected, you landed backwards onto your hands again and bounced yourself back to your feet, only to find that he had been waiting for that specific move; he’d let your feet drive him to the ground but he’d pushed back up in an immediate kip up and was once again standing. He took you down with an outstretched arm, pinning your arms to your sides. His body on top of yours, his skin on your skin, his hair brushing your cheek; it was almost too much. It reminded you of long ago days and cold nights and hot bedsheets; it reminded you of everything you’d ever done with him, above and beyond fighting. You moved slightly, readying to knee him between the legs. He had felt a twitch or saw a gleam in your eye or just knew what you’d do anyways. He grinned, a playful look in his dark features. “Careful with the goods, Darlin’.” He winked at you, not letting go of your arms.

  
  


“ How did you know what I was thinking?” You breathed out heavily, hissing into his ear, he was so close. You suspected he didn’t know how himself, but you wanted to see what he would, or could, tell you. 

  
  


“ I don’t know.” His face got pensive. You mustered up your last bit of strength, throwing his hands from your arms, breaking them free from his solid grasp. You could only get one of his arms down however; his metal one.

  
  


You saw the look in his eye. “ _ If you go for the hair, we’re going to have a real problem. _ ”  You leaned up towards him, whispering in his ear again. He pulled back, eyes wide.

  
  


“ How did you know I was going to do that?” He asked you. You frowned. You couldn’t tell him that you knew because he’d always tried that when you’d ended up like this. You’d always only been strong enough to contain one arm, and he’d always used the other to grab you and stop you from whatever devious maneuver you’d been planning when sparring, usually going for the hair. Telling him would be admitting you knew him, and that would make you vulnerable.

  
  


“ Lucky guess.” You replied. “Don’t be so paranoid. You want to get off me now?” He sprang up, extricating his body from yours, and the sudden coldness and lack of him near you had a numbing effect. You wanted him back and you wanted him close, and it amazed you that over ten years of his absence couldn’t dull that emotion, especially when all other emotions of yours were dulled to the point of uselessness and always had been. It was like he’d started a fire all those years ago and try as you might to put it out, it wouldn’t stop burning.

  
  


He looked unsurely at you, as though something was nagging at him, but it seemed to pass quickly and he reached a hand down and helped you up. You accepted, grasping his strong arm, and he lifted you easily to your feet.

  
  


“ Good fight.” He nodded at you.

  
  


“ Indeed.” You replied.

  
  


“ Ahem.” You both turned to see who had cleared their throat behind you. It was Tony. He was standing, hands on hips, eyeing you both strangely. “Have you two been training together?”

  
  


“ No, why?” You replied, feigning innocence.

  
  


“ _ Why _ ?” Tony raised his brows. “Because that fight went on forever, and you two… neither one could get the jump on the other. You moved like you could read each other’s minds.” Tony pursed his lips and glanced at Steve, who was deep in thought. “It was weird, frankly. And a little bit creepy. Though I guess since you’re  _ both  _ weird, that’s to be expected.”

  
  


Bucky shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve sparred with Natasha. Nat.” He eyed you, testing out the new nickname. You nodded at him, letting him know that it was okay that he use this shortened version of your name that only your friends could call you. At what point of abjectly avoiding you he’d decided he wanted to use the pet name as well, you’d ever know.

  
  


Tony looked from one of you to the other. “Right. Well… good show, then.” He shook his head and furrowed his eyebrows. “Who even won that fight?”

  
  


“ Let’s just take a breather for a while?” Steve announced. He was also regarding both of you with an unreadable expression. You ignored it; you’d have them convinced that you and Bucky were just that good pretty soon, and it would be water under the bridge.

  
  


Everyone went their separate ways, the chatter quieting; Bucky settling down near his friend, you taking a seat in the corner, leaning up against the wall. It gave you a moment to really think about what had just come to pass. This was strange. His body knew who you were. You wondered if his mind would follow, and half of you hoped it would and half of you was scared and hoped it wouldn’t. You looked over at him, laughing with his friend; you decided you hoped he didn’t remember you. How could he forgive himself for the sins of the past if he remembered loving you on the nights in between tearing through Europe as the most deadly assassins the West had ever seen? It was best for everyone to put those stories to rest.

* * *

You were standing in the pantry of the common room kitchen a few days later, looking for a particular box of cereal, when you heard voices coming into the attached dining room. You grinned. The voice you heard belonged to Steve, and you’d wanted to talk to him about a trip to the Smithsonian. You loved hearing his stories about the Howling Commandos. You were about to round the corner to ask him when he and Sam had decided to take time off and go, when you heard a second voice. It was Bucky, and what he said stopped you dead in your tracks.

  
  


“ I keep dreaming about her, Steve. It’s like she’s real.” His voice sounded strained. “When I sleep, which isn’t often, she’s there.” You felt your skin grow cold and your stomach feel empty.  _ Who was he talking about? _

  
  


“ Why do you think she’s real, Buck?” You heard Steve reply. “It could just be a dream girl. We all have those, trust me. We all have those.”

  
  


You heard a chair creak as Bucky sat down, the noise of the furniture nearly as forlorn as his tone. “I’m not sure. I can feel it. I feel it in my chest. I feel her in my chest. She’s real. She’s out there somewhere. Or she  _ was _ real. I’ve been gone for seventy years. Maybe she was someone I met along the way.” He sounded sad.

  
  


“ Tell me about her?” Steve’s concerned voice carried over to you, hiding in the pantry. You stood still as a stone. You were considering leaving. You didn’t want to hear any more, and you didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping either. If you left now, you could make some noise in the cupboard and pretend you’d never heard a thing.

  
  


“ I dream of details. It’s mostly a feeling she gives me, but the details are the same every time. She speaks Russian to me.” Bucky sounded embarrassed. “Her face, it’s always hazy. I can never see it.” You closed your eyes. You thought back to long nights spent with him; of course Russian was spoken. You were Russian, and at the time, you’d known he wasn’t but he’d spoken it fluently; you’d both been operatives for that country. You wondered if he were really just making someone up in his head, or if he were… no. That was silly. It wasn’t you. Seventy years of memories were locked away in his mind. He’d spent only two of those with you. What were the odds you had even made a dent? He was a Russian assassin. There had to have been other women, other Russians. “But I think she’s a redhead, kind of like Natasha, only her hair is a lot longer, you know?“ There had to have been other redheads. You drew in a sharp breath.

  
  


“ That  _ is _ pretty specific.” You heard Steve coming nearer; you pressed yourself ever closer to the wall. It was too late to pretend you hadn’t heard anything. You could only hope he didn’t catch you. “Are you alright? Why don’t I make the coffee and you go put the game on? I’ll bring it in once it’s done.”

  
  


“ Right. I’ll… okay.” You heard the chair scrape against the floor, and boots beat a hasty retreat from the dining area. You stayed still, beads of sweat popping up on your forehead, a thousand ideas and scenarios flying through your unquiet mind.  _ Please let there be coffee in the canister on the counter. Please let there be coffee in the canister on the counter. Please don’t let Steve find you here. _

  
  


You heard a lid being pried open. “Of course. Thor never grinds coffee.” You heard Steve mutter, frustrated. He threw open the pantry door, and you were caught. “Natasha. What are you doing in here?”

  
  


“ I. Um. I heard you two talking and I didn’t want to interrupt.” You looked at the floor. “I was going to leave.”

  
  


“ You heard everything?” He asked you. You nodded. He looked across the room and out the window, sighing, before returning his gaze to you. You were going to lie to him again, and you had to admit, it really wasn’t easy to lie to Captain America. There was something about this man that made you, and everyone else, want to to good, not bad. However, there were also about a thousand things better left unsaid and unknown.

  
  


“ I was going to leave, but he started talking and then it would have been awkward.”

  
  


“ From what he said, I can see why you wouldn’t want to come out of there.” He looked right at you. “I think he has you superimposed with the girl in his dreams.” You remained quiet. If that’s what Steve wanted to think , that’s what you would let him go on believing.

  
  


“ I came to the same conclusion.” You agreed.

  
  


“ I don’t think he’s realizing he’s even doing it.Or that it’s you.” Steve shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nat. That must have been a strange thing to hear.”

  
  


“ It’s fine, Steve. The man has been through a lot. And you never know. Maybe there was a Russian redhead somewhere in the last seven decades. I’m not the only crimson haired beauty who knows the Cyrillic alphabet.” You smirked.

  
  


Steve grinned, grabbing the coffee from the shelf behind you. “You’re really great at rolling with the punches, Nat. Thanks.”

  
  


“ Of course. Have fun watching hockey.” You ducked out of the kitchen. Your mind was racing. This was all too much. The Avengers, even Clint, didn’t know half of the things you’d done as the Black Widow. If Bucky started remembering… you didn’t want to think about that. There could be no hope for a reconciliation; circumstances were far different now, and you honestly weren’t even sure you wanted that, or that either of you were capable of such things. Your relationship, if you wanted to call it that, so long ago in Europe, had been born out of despair and matured in the darkness and secrecy; it had been your only solace. Was there even a place for it now? You didn’t think so. You didn’t want to know. You’d been thinking a lot, you were always thinking, and you just couldn’t rectify the feelings that you had for the man who had tried to end you, with the feelings that you had for the man who had tried to love you, and so avoidance was key, avoidance was necessary,  _ avoidance was everything. _ You took the elevator down, into the garage, got into your little black sports car, and made your way into the city.

  
  
  


 


	3. Part 3: Sinners and Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You seek comfort from your memories; you recall an early mission that you and The Winter Soldier partook in; the first hint of a bond between the two of you.

_ Present Day _

  
  


The darkness, the blackness and stillness of the night surrounded the two of you. Your bodies moved as one, the rhythmic dance that nature intended, always intended. You gripped his shoulders, closing your eyes tight. For the past week, you’d found yourself here every night. First at the club, then inevitably calling him, and then the rendezvous. As always, you kept your emotions separate; you were here for the physical and he knew that, the need you felt deep in your bones and in your soul and the itch that wasn’t being scratched in any other way and so you filled your time with meaningless pleasures.

  
  


He was satisfying, also as always, but the red letters on his clock, and the stillness, and the cold, it made your mind go elsewhere; back to somewhere and someone who had been better, someone who had been more passionate, more thorough, more enjoyable. When your emotions and your physical acts had been joined for once. You thought back to James,  _ no, Bucky _ , in the vast reaches of Russia and the far corners of your mind where you’d tried your best to push him and failed every time. He had been good; nights spent together, non stop, pushing you until you were at the edge and your toes curled, your fingertips gripping bedsheets until they cramped and your mind racing and then going blank. Wiping damp hair from his brow, eyes boring into yours. Whispers in the dark. Leaving before morning, almost always, so no one would ever know, so Ivan, so Alexander Pierce, would never know. To the outside world you were partners, nothing more. To each other you had been everything. 

  
  


You let his name slip out, and you immediately knew it was a mistake. No matter how much you and Ryan played with fire and didn’t care about getting burned, saying the wrong man’s name in bed was never a good thing. He stopped what he was doing, and your eyes flew open. 

  
  


“Who’s James?” He asked, rolling off of you, sighing. It had been a good time while it lasted. 

  
  


“I’m sorry. He’s… God. A lover from a long time ago.” You got up, beginning to pull on your clothes.

  
  


“I knew we were just here to get our minds off of things, Nat, but come on.” He grumbled.

  
  


“ It’s  _ Natasha _ .” You corrected him, retrieving an errant boot from beneath the bed.

  
  


“Natasha.”

  
  


“I’m sorry. It just slipped out.” You stood at the foot of the bed, half dressed, looking down at him. He was cross, but not without sympathy. You made it a habit to surround yourself with decent people now. 

  
  


“Shit happens. Come back to bed.” He shrugged.

  
  


You shook your head. Your mind was telling you that it was time to go. “I’ll let myself out. I’ll call you.”

  
  


“No, you won’t.” He watched you leave.

  
  


_ Siberia, 11 December, 2002 _

  
  


You pulled your binoculars from your eyes and handed them to your left, to the tall man standing beside you. You were both cloaked in white, you in fur, he in canvas and wool. The snowy reaches of Siberia stretched before you and behind you; the ledge you were on jutting out of the mountain like a small shelf. You turned to him as he took the eyepiece and put them up, looking through them. “He’s in the second vehicle. I’m sure it’s him.”

  
  


The Winter Soldier nodded, standing tall and strong against the swirling snow, peering down at the caravan that had just arrived at this outpost far in the Northern reaches of Russia. “He leaves tomorrow at dusk. I’ll be ready.” He handed the binoculars back to you, turning towards the cave cut into the hillside; along the wall was a case containing a long range sniper rifle. His specialty, you’d discovered, in the last three months of training and working together. You watched him move away from you, his long strides carrying him into the cave, his long wool coat sweeping behind him. You were taking first watch. You settled down, keeping a close eye on the compound, and a close watch for the American that had just gone in. You knew the Soldier was probably getting a few hours of sleep inside of the cave. 

  
  


You lay motionless on the mountainside for hours. The snow whipped itself into a frenzy, and soon you could not see the door to the low building, or even the building itself. You heard footsteps behind you, measured and sure. It was him, you knew, and so you didn’t bother to turn around. You felt a hand on your shoulder.

  
  


“Romanova. The weather is too harsh. Come in.”

  
  


“I can’t abandon my post.” You still didn’t turn around.

  
  


“No, but you can’t die out here either.” His light touch on your jacket tightened a bit. 

  
  


“Go back in, Soldier. My watch isn’t finished.”

  
  


“I’m not dragging you back frozen tomorrow.” His response was nearly a growl. “You can’t see the building. I can’t see to shoot. If he leaves during the blizzard, the mission is over. Come in.” He tightened his grip even more. “I don’t need a dead partner.”

  
  


You relented, picking yourself up off of the ground. You couldn’t see the way back to the cave; you could barely see him. His hand drifted down, following the line of your body from your shoulder, down your arm, grasping your gloved hand and leading you back towards safety. The cave was dark; a heavy cloth hung across the entrance to block out the light from the extremely dim lantern glowing in the back. He dropped your hand, shaking the snow from his coat and retreating to the blankets spread out in the reaches of the cavern. 

  
  


“You can rest. It’s almost time for my watch anyways.” He gestured at the pallet, picked up his thermos, and came back to the entrance. He dropped to the ground, leaning against the wall. You nodded, making your way to the back. You clicked out the light; you didn’t want to leave it on long, blizzard or no blizzard. A light visible on a hillside would give you away. You lay down and pulled the blanket up around you. It smelled like the Soldier. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant; you’d gotten used to his scent as the days and weeks had passed and you’d spent so much time training, travelling, and killing. It was almost comforting to you now. Clean and masculine. 

  
  


You lay there for a long time, and he sat there for a long time, and neither of you moved. Finally, you spoke. “We’ve been working together for three months now, Soldier.”

  
  


He was silent, still, for a few more moments. 

  
  


“Did you hear me?”

  
  


“I heard you.”

  
  


“You don’t talk much.”

  
  


“Neither do you.” He pointed out, his deep voice echoing through the blackness. “But I was thinking of what to say.” He paused again. “You know we’ve met before.”

  
  


You froze. You weren’t sure what he was talking about. Before being introduced in September, you’d never laid eyes on this man before. “No, Soldier, you’re mistaken.”

  
  


“I’m not.”

  
  


“Yes. You are. I’d remember you.”

  
  


“We worked together once before. Two years ago. An arms dealer in Austria.” He fell quiet. You weren’t sure if he was waiting for you to speak, but you were at a loss. You’d never targeted an arms dealer in Austria, much less with him. “I kept waiting for you to bring it up, but it seems like you don’t know me.”

  
  


You gulped. You  _ didn’t _ know him. You’d gotten to know him in the previous few months, but you had no recollection of him prior. A sinking feeling placed itself solidly in the pit of your stomach. You’d had your suspicions that something in your life wasn’t quite what you expected; things out of place, memories not quite meshing. “When was this exactly?”

  
  


“I’m not sure. I’ve been… wiped since then as well. But I remember you for some reason. I know it was you.”

  
  


“You must be mistaken.”

  
  


“No. I remember. You told me that you’d trained with the Bolshoi Ballet when you were young.”

  
  


“I was never with the Bolshoi Ballet.”

  
  


“You have a tattoo of a spider. Beneath your left breast.”

  
  


“How do you know about that?” You had been laying with your eyes closed, but at the mention of your tattoo they flew open, greeted only with darkness. You’d gotten that tattoo a little over two years ago, on your birthday, by yourself in Paris. The timing was right. What exactly had happened while on this supposed mission to take out an arms dealer in Austria, that the Soldier had seen your hidden ink?

  
  


“ You got hit with a blade. I stitched you up. You have a scar right below it.” He stated, seeming to anticipate what was going through your mind and alleviating your curiosity. You  _ did _ have a scar there, but you hazily remembered getting it training with Yelena. You shook your head. This didn’t make sense. You knew the Bolshoi Ballet was a cover for some of the agents, and the mind games were too, but not you, never you. But how certain were you that Ivan had never dealt that hand to you, really?

  
  


“I’ll… have to look into that.”

  
  


“I thought it would jog your memory. I’m sorry.” He sounded almost sincere, almost sad, over there on his side of the freezing cold cave. 

  
  


“It’s not your problem.” You replied briskly. “Is your weapon ready?” You changed the subject. You’d think about all of this,but you’d think about it later.

  
  


“Yes.” Another few minutes of silence. 

  
  


“ How long have you worked with Hydra, Soldier?” You finally let curiosity get the better of you. You were well aware that you lived a solitary life, but from what you could piece together of his life, it was beyond terrible. You didn’t know how long he’d worked for them, but they were even more ruthless with him than the Black Widow Program could ever hope to be with you, even if they had erased some things from your recollection.  _ You were sure they had good reason if they’d done so.  _ You couldn’t believe that your whole world would do something like that to serve no purpose.

  
  


“I don’t know. A while.” He replied. You heard him move slightly, and felt cold air hit you. He must have moved the fabric over the door a bit to check the night sky. The cold subsided. “I don’t remember much. How long have you been with the Black Widow Program?”

  
  


“ Since I was five.” You smiled to yourself. _ You’d never trained with any ballet _ .

  
  


“When was the first time you ever killed anyone?” He inquired. You heard him pick up something across the cave, and heard him setting it back down. His rifle, you assumed. A small light came on, and you could see him checking all of the settings. 

  
  


“I was nine. She was eleven.” 

  
  


“That seems a little young.”

  
  


“Not for a Black Widow.” You rolled over, watching his blurred outline. He was interesting. Like his outline in the dark, he was vague. A shadow you couldn’t catch, a fleeting image you couldn’t quite see. “How old were you?”

  
  


“I don’t know.”

  
  


“How can you not know?”

  
  


“Other that you and Austria, I don’t remember anything before our meeting three months ago.”

  
  


“How is that possible?” You asked. That made no sense. You knew they could make a person forget a few things, or reprogram memories. But you were supposed to believe that this man remembered nothing? You knew that he’d been in cryo and that was an odd enough concept in and of itself but it seemed to fit; Hydra had advanced technology, and the tales of the Winter Soldier reached far back into the Cold War, beginning barely after World War 2. Either the figurehead was comprised of different people, each one taking up the mantle upon the death of the last, or he had been frozen and kept young the entire time. But memory wipes? Remembering nothing? You’d never counted on that. In all of your years of espionage, of hunting, of living in the darkness of society, the thought of erasing a person so completely still sent chills through you. You weren’t a whole person, not by a long shot, but you knew who you were. Or you believed that you did.

  
  


“I don’t know.” He said the same thing again. He seemed oddly unconcerned with it. He sat there, checking out his gun, adjusting things here and there. 

  
  


“How come I have to call you Soldier? Don’t you have a normal code name? An alias? Like a real name?”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“They call you Soldier?”

  
  


“If they call me anything.”

  
  


Your heart broke a little, hearing that. And that was strange for you. Your heart had been hardened, a little more each day, since you were five years old and your training had begun. You had very little capacity for empathy or sympathy, but you were feeling it now, for this man, sitting before you with no concept of how awful it was that he didn’t have a name. “That’s not right. I was calling you Soldier because I thought it was your call sign.”

  
  


You could see him shrug. “You can call me Soldier.”

  
  


You shook your head. “You need a name.”

  
  


That got his attention, and he turned towards you. You couldn’t make out the expression on his face; all that you could see was a silhouette, but his entire demeanor changed. “You want to give me a name?”

  
  


“What do you want to be called?”

  
  


“Soldier?”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“I can’t think of anything.” He finally said, a little defeated. “Will you come up with one?”

  
  


“I.. I guess so.” You paused, thinking. This was a strange situation to be sure, but you couldn’t leave this man with no proper name. You thought for a while. Nothing seeme to fit. He was a tall, dark, handsome, tough specter of a man, who’d come out of the darkness and would eventually go back into it. He shot to kill and he took no prisoners, and he moved with a purpose and a grace that was otherworldly. The Winter Soldier fit the man much better than it could ever fit the legend, but that wasn’t a name. That wasn’t something you could call someone over a cup of tea, or sitting around a campfire. “James.” You stated. “What do you think of James?”

  
  


He waited a beat before speaking. “I like it. James.” He tested it out a few times. “You can never call me that in front of anyone.”

  
  


“I know. It’s just between us. James.” You smiled into the cold night air. 

  
  


“It’s just between us, Romanova.” 

* * *

  
  


“Do you have a clear shot?” 

  
  


The big, dark haired man adjusted his sight, letting out a low grunt. “Yes.”

  
  


You waited. It was nearly sunset the next day. The American, and his convoy, were preparing to leave. You watched through your binoculars as two cars pulled away. You felt the Soldier,  _ James now _ , tense from his position prostrate in the snow on the mountain ledge. You counted silently, and on three, you heard the gun discharge and saw the man near the building fall a moment later. 

  
  


“Target eliminated.” He informed you, even though you’d seen it and knew already. It was a formality, the Soldier was big on formalities, crossing his T’s and dotting his I’s. The few guards snapped to attention, some rushing to the dead man’s side to check for a pulse that had since vacated, others immediately scanning for a gunman. James grabbed the rifle and crawled through the snow back to you, and the two of you took off down the back side of the mountain, as you began to hear bullets plummet into the snow behind you. You reached the zipline down to the the ground, and the Soldier stepped aside. Firm hands spanned your waist and lifted you up to reach it before you even had time to jump like you had planned. Wind whipped the hood of your coat down as you sped along towards the ground. You couldn’t hear him but you knew he was close behind you; you could feel his presence like you always could feel him when he was around. You dropped and rolled at the bottom, springing easily to your feet. Fedorov was waiting with the snowmobile. 

  
  


“Best be going. They aren’t thrilled we shot their man.” You informed him, climbing onto the back. The Soldier settled down next to you, the big coats keeping you from feeling any of his body heat. Body heat, or any kind of heat for that matter, would be nice right now. It was freezing; the cave had been a doable temperature, but it was beyond uninhabitable out here. You pulled your hood up and your scarf to cover your face from the subzero temperatures, sliding your glance sideways. He too was in ski goggles, a heavy scarf, his hood covering his hair. Even if you’d been spotted, no one could identify either of you. He was silent, as he usually was. 

  
  


“Roger that, Romanova.” Fedorov stepped on the gas, and the three of you sped out of the narrow gulf between mountains, and towards the pick up zone. 

  
  


 


	4. Part 4: Dirty Pretty Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky spend an evening together at the tower, yet he still does not remember you. You recall a long ago mission on a train in Russia, a nickname, and a first kiss.

_  
Present Day_

  
  


You sped home in your little black sports car, back to the tower. Your interlude with Ryan; saying the Soldier’s name in bed by mistake… you knew why you’d done it. It was the reason you’d even called Ryan in the first place.

  
  


After you’d been witness to Cap and Bucky talking in the kitchen a week ago, found out that Bucky’s dreams were filled with a forgotten mystery girl who you were certain was actually you, you’d taken off to your safe haven, your hiding spot. You weren’t ready or able to deal with that reality right now, and so you weren’t going to. You were so fully committed to not handling it at the moment, you had been visiting your secret getaway nearly every night. An underground club in the city. It made you think of home. It was dark and gritty, strobe lights flashing and music thumping in the silvery blackness, and it had a neon sign out front, visible from the street. It had reminded you of a club you’d had to stake out for a few nights 13 years ago, Bucky by your side, looking for a member of the Russian mafia. The sign was a red spider. You’d texted Ryan that night; the pilot had been your occasional hookup for a while now. Neither one of you was looking for anything more than what you were currently getting, and so the arrangement worked for you, and currently you needed Bucky out of your head. But tonight, you’d been dancing and having a good time, when out of the corner of your eye, amid the shadows and strobe lights and men in tight tee shirts and women in slinky dresses, you’d seen a familiar form. Dark hair, a leather jacket, five o’clock shadow, and a single black glove on his left hand.  _Bucky was at your club_.

  
  


He had been at the bar, a green bottle of beer in his hand, chatting up a blonde woman in a short red dress. She had been smiling and touching his arm, and he laughing, setting his hand on her waist. As soon as you saw him, you dropped back, a cold feeling surrounding you; why would you feel like that? It had been how many years?  _He didn’t even remember you._  You shook your head, frowning to yourself. You turned your back. Why was he even here? How had he ended up at the same club, of all of the places he could go in the city of New York?

  
  


You’d departed across the room, against the wall at the far side, and texted Ryan. He’d replied, saying he’d meet you at his place. You turned to make your way to the exit, and found yourself face to face with Bucky.

  
  


“Nat.” He’d looked down at you. Smiling, as though glad to see you, glad to find a familiar face in a sea of strangers, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I thought that was you.”

You forced a grin onto your face, tugging the hem of your tiny black dress down a little bit. “What are you doing here?” You asked him.

  
  


“I… I’m not sure.” He looked around. “I saw the sign from the road the other night, and… I think it reminds me of something that, well, that I can’t remember.Like it should be familiar but I just can’t remember why.” He shrugged, like such a problem were entirely normal, like he were used to such things by now and it was just a small nuisance in the grand scheme of things. “I came to check it out.” He peered down at you. “Is something wrong?”

You let out a low sigh. “No one knows I come here, Bucky. This is  _my_  place.”

  
  


He looked confused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I… I won’t come back?”

  
  


You shrugged. Your mind was racing, your heart pounding. You had come here because no one knew to even look for you here, and now the one thing you had been hoping to escape, the past you couldn’t seem to outrun, had caught up with you. “Doesn’t matter, I guess.” You tried to be as cold as possible. “Where’s your blond?”

  
  


“Who, Kim?” He looked around. “I told her I had to go find a friend of mine. She’s waiting for me at the bar.”

  
  


“You probably shouldn’t leave her waiting for too long.” You knew you were being rude, or not rude exactly, but  _distant_.

  
  


A glazed look passed over his handsome features. “I guess not. Are you in a hurry to go somewhere or something? Can I buy you a drink? I really like your dress, by the way. It looks really nice on you.”

  
  


You wanted to say yes to the drink, and thank him for the compliment, you really did, or part of you did. Part of you remembered what it had been like to be with this man, so totally and completely; but part of you remembered what it had been like to lose him so totally and completely, and then to be shot by him. His cold eyes looking at you as he fired a round into your body, through you, to kill a scientist in Odessa. His unrecognizing gaze on the overpass, the sound of his boots, measured steps stalking their prey before you felt the bullet pass through your shoulder in DC. Hurt ripped through your chest just thinking about it. You took a deep breath. You needed to solidify that you weren’t going to let this happen. You weren’t going down that road, weren’t opening yourself up like that.  _He doesn’t even remember you._ You put on a cold front. “No, thank you, I’m on my way out. I have a date.”

  
  


His expression fell slightly, though you expected he didn’t even know why he was disappointed at all. “All right, then.”

  
  


“Have fun with Kim.” It came out more snarky than you anticipated, but it was probably better this way.

  
  


“I’m sure I will.” He’d replied, every bit as testily as you were being to him. You’d left, and now, hours later, you were pulling up to the tower, tired yet knowing that you would be unable to sleep. You ascended the elevator, bypassed your apartment, and went instead to the common room. You didn’t have a television in your quarters; had never wanted one really. But you needed to watch some mindless television tonight. You tossed your purse on the table by the door, flipped on a light, and turned on the TV. You went to the kitchen down the hall for a mug of tea; when you returned, Bucky sat on one end of the sofa, staring blankly at the television set. His dress shirt was slightly wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar; rolled up to his elbows, no longer trying to mask his metal appendage. He turned to you as you entered.

  
  


“Bucky.” You nodded at him. You hadn’t expected to see him tonight. You hadn’t expected him to even be back at the tower this evening, really; he’d appeared to be getting on pretty well with the blond in the red dress at the bar.

  
  


“Nat.” He raised his hand in a small wave. “I didn’t expect you to be home tonight.”

  
  


You shrugged. “Date was a bust.” You said simply. Anything else was none of his business, none of anyone’s business, and not anything you would want to share with anyone, ever. Maybe Clint would hear about it someday. Maybe. You usually eventually told him your stories of being a bonehead. But maybe not this one; not when it had to do with Bucky. “I didn’t think you’d be back. You didn’t go home with Kim?”

  
  


He seemed to blush a little, but the light was so dim, you couldn’t be sure. “I did.” He replied. Your heart immediately sank for some reason. You steeled yourself against any emotion whatsoever. This was ridiculous and you needed to stop; it had been 11 years since James had been taken from you and replaced with a man who had tried to murder you; 11 years in which he had probably known plenty of women, and you had definitely known plenty of men. Being jealous of one blond that he’d just met tonight was just foolish and wouldn’t do you any good.

  
  


“It didn’t go well?” You asked.

  
  


“It went alright.” He shrugged. “Pretty well, I guess. But I wanted to come home. I don’t think I’m ready for… meeting new people like that, yet.” He seemed hesitant to talk to you about it at first. You could understand why. You weren’t the best of friends. For all he knew, he’d shot you on the overpass a year ago, and just actually met you two months ago when Steve had dragged him back to the tower. He didn’t know that at one time, you’d known all of his secrets; or at least, you’d known everything about him that he himself had known.

  
  


He was silent a few seconds, then continued. “I don’t remember much of the last few decades, so conversation is hard, you know? Once we stopped talking, it went fine. It went really well, I guess you could say. But once that was over, and she fell asleep, I just really wanted to come home.” He shrugged. “I was going to ask for her number, I’d planned to, but after it all, I just didn’t feel comfortable, so I never did. What’s the point in having a girl around if you can’t really talk to her, right?” He looked at you with imploring eyes, the same eyes that had put their trust in you so many times before, now long forgotten. You nodded in understanding. He sighed. “What do you do? I mean, I know you remember everywhere you’ve been, but there’s a lot of things you can’t talk about. How’d your date go? What  _do_  you talk about?”

  
  


“My date was a pilot who used to work for Shield. He knows what I do. He knows not to ask questions.” You replied, staring levelly at Bucky. You were honestly still so surprised he was considering Avenger Tower  _home_. In all the time you’d known him, he’d been very much a man without a home. You both had been that way, but he even moreso than yourself.

  
  


“That’s… convenient.” He looked at the floor, then back up at your face. “Is he a nice guy? Is it serious?”

  
  


“Yeah, he’s a nice guy.” You gave him a small smile, your lips upturning at one end coyly. “But nothing’s ever serious when it comes to me.” You ran a hand through your red curls.

  
  


“Do you get lonely ever?”

  
  


“No.” You lied. Kind of. You’d really never noticed you were lonely, not until he had shown up and you’d started really thinking about all of the things that had been taken from you. Time heals all wounds, is how the saying went. You were discovering this wasn’t entirely true. Time covers things up, but it doesn’t fix them. Now you were standing in the common room of the home you shared with your amnesiac former lover, who was also your former attempted murderer, talking about the romantic interludes you’d just had with other people. If you weren’t so well trained in controlling your emotions, it would be really hard to breathe right now.

  
  


“Do you mind if I watch TV with you?”

  
  


You shook your head. The need to be distant, to keep him at arm’s length, had dissipated in the early hours of the morning. Now, you were just two people, two insomniacs, looking for a common goal. Not to hurt each other, or to love each other; just to relax enough to maybe find some peace tonight. You’d both been unable to find it with your previous romantic partners; the quiet and hollowness of the witching hour would be spent with one another. “You can stay. You can’t sleep?” You knew the answer already. He had never been able to sleep.

  
  


“Not usually.”

  
  


“Don’t you have a TV in your room?”

  
  


“Yeah. It’s not really working though. I don’t feel like trying to fix it right now. Plus, I really don’t know how.” He clicked the remote. “What do you want to watch?”

  
  


“I don’t care.” You settled down on the opposite side of the couch. He finally picked an old episode of Star Trek Voyager, and you watched in a comfortable silence for a long time. When the second episode ended, you glanced over at him; he was sound asleep, laying sprawled out on the extended lounge chair part of the sofa. You were feeling sleepy, and cold in your tiny dress. You stood, covered him with a blanket, and left. “Goodnight, James.” You whispered back into the room, giving one last look to his sleeping form, clicking off the light, and retreating down the hall.  _He’d always been able to sleep when he was with you._

  
  


_Kaliningrad, 23 December, 2002_

  
  


The Soldier waited for you on the platform of the train station. He wore black slacks and a black peacoat, a suitcase resting by his feet. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets; a gray scarf wrapped around his neck. You tightened your gray wool coat around you, checked to make sure your blonde wig was on just so, and stepped out of the ladies room, carrying your suitcase as well. You waved at him, rushing towards him, feigning excitement. He smiled at you, seeing you across the way.

  
  


“Dmitri!” You called the fake name, rushing up to him. You dropped your suitcase on the ground beside him, wrapping your arms around his neck; he pulled you close, and you pressed your lips to his. You pulled away, your lips buzzing in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d kissed plenty of people on covert missions, to sell a cover or to get information, or in this case, to make people not look at you.  _Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable_. None had ever been anything more than the feeling you’d get kissing yourself in a mirror; but kissing the Soldier was different. You shoved it out of your mind.

  
  


“I wasn’t sure you’d make it in time.” He said to you, low enough to not be conspicuous, but loud enough to be audible should anyone be listening. You needed to sound like any other couple about to take a train ride.

  
  


“Of course I made it. Happy anniversary.” You smiled up at him. He stooped, picked up both suitcases, and you made your way to the locomotive that had just pulled into the station. Your mark was on this train, or would be at the next city; in the cabin next to the one you would be in. The man, another American, a spy named Mark Harvelle, was slated to take the train from Moscow to Vladivostok, clear across Russia.  _He was planning on it, but he wouldn’t make it that far._ You and the Soldier, who you were now used to calling James in private, were going to make the man disappear before he could get to Vladivostok and make his way to it’s sister city in the USA, San Diego. You weren’t privy to whatever information Mark Harvelle had stumbled upon, or what exactly he had done to have a target painted on his back, but you and the Soldier were going to be the ones to finish the job.

  
  


You followed James onto the train, a hostess directing you to the appropriate car and to your sleeping quarters. His broad back and shoulders in the black peacoat nearly filled the narrow corridors; he was careful and deliberate not to hit your suitcases on anything. You’d both gotten through security easily, as you had no guns. You had a garrotting wire concealed in the handle of your purse, and a carbon fiber knife strapped to your leg. You knew he had the same kinds of weapons somewhere on his body as well, underneath the layers of clothes. Once at the door to your room, he stood to the side, letting you unlock it with the keycard, letting the two of you in. He set the suitcases by the door, stepping in and taking off his jacket and sitting on the edge of the low bed. “It takes 22 hours to get to Moscow. Do you want to bug his room now, or wait?”

  
  


“I think we should do it during dinner hour.” You doffed your wool coat as well, examining the ceiling. “I think that panel moves. Can you reach it, James?”

  
  


He stood and nodded, seeming to perk up a bit upon hearing his new name. He always seemed happier to be called this, rather than Soldier, though you made sure that no one save the two of you knew about it. It would not do for Ivan, or Alexander Pierce, or any of his handlers or your handlers, to know the two of you had anything resembling friendship. That would be frowned upon, and a mind wipe wasn’t something you wanted. James approached the corner, reaching up and moving the ceiling tile easily over to the side. You glanced up into the dark space he had revealed.

  
  


“Thank you.” You nodded. “During dinner, when everyone has cleared out so nobody hears anything. I’ll climb up there and put the bug somewhere he won’t find it, and we’ll sneak in and replace his light bulb with the fake one.” You stated, referring to the listening device disguised as a regular bulb, that you had brought with you. A spy would know how to spot a regular bug.

  
  


James nodded once in affirmation, replaced the panel, and sat back down to wait, his hair falling in his face. He brushed it aside, staring out the window. “Do you want a book, James?” You asked, hauling your suitcase to the bed and opening it. You were accustomed to waiting as well, in far worse places than a warm train car, but it was going to be hours; you’d brought things to do. Discipline was a great thing to have, however, it wasn’t necessary all of the time.

  
  


His eyes travelled to the contents of your case. There wasn’t much. A change of clothes, and a few old paperback novels. All things you wouldn’t be sad to ditch at the end of the mission. He glanced over the silky stockings and underwear folded neatly beside the books; diverting his eyes politely and instead studying the titles. “We’re allowed to read on the mission?” He questioned, looking back to you.

  
  


You shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We have nearly a day to kill before he even gets on the train.”

  
  


“I’m not sure. Alexander is pretty strict about missions.”

  
  


“Alexander had them partner us so that you could become a spy as well as an assassin. Alexander is going to have to get used to you exercising your mind.” You pulled out a book and handed it to him. He hesitated. “Listen, James. I’m not your superior. I’m your partner. I’m your colleague. You can do whatever you want. You can sit here silently and stare out the window for 22 hours, or you can entertain yourself.” You shrugged. He took the book.

* * *

You lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling panel in the corner. During the dinner hour, you’d crawled up into the small space above the rooms and planted the bug, while James had picked the lock into the room next door and replaced the bulb with the surveillance device; then the two of you had gone to the dining car and pretended to be a couple enjoying an anniversary dinner, you in your blond wig and he in his slacks and dress shoes. Now you were back in your quarters, getting some sleep before Mark Harvelle boarded at 9am the next morning. You could both sleep tonight; since the mark wasn’t on the train, neither of you needed to take turns keeping watch. Since you were posing as a couple, you were sharing a sleeping car, and a bed. You were keenly aware of the muscular form of the Soldier beside you. Heat radiated off of him, so much so that it was nearly getting to warm under the covers. You were at least a foot away from him; he was facing the wall on his side of the bed, and you were staring at the ceiling on yours. He seemed to be sound asleep, which was odd for him. You knew he had trouble sleeping, but this evening, his breathing had gotten slow and rhythmic almost as soon as you’d both climbed into bed.

  
  


You’d been lying there, staring at the ceiling for quite a while, when beside you, his breathing got faster. His fingers began gripping at the bedsheets, and he started making noises under his breath. At first you thought he was having a nightmare, but then you realized the noises he was making weren’t nightmare noises. You peered over at him, slightly embarrassed. You were pretty sure he was dreaming about sex right now, and you weren’t entirely sure what to do about it.

  
  


You didn’t have to make a decision, though. He let out a low moan, his hands reaching up to grasp his pillow, and then he seemed to jolt awake. He sat up, his eyes travelling over to you.

  
  


“Shit.” He let out a low growl.

  
  


“Bad dream?” You asked, feigning like you’d just been asleep.

  
  


“Uh… Not exactly.” He fell back onto the pillow.

  
  


You guessed that he wasn’t buying your “I just woke up” routine, and so you quit pretending. “Don’t worry about it. We all have those dreams.”

  
  


“Yeah, okay.” He sighed.

  
  


“Can I ask you a question, though?”

  
  


“Sure, I guess.”

  
  


“You’ve had your memory wiped completely. You even remember that? How long have you been with Hydra? Are you sure you’ve ever done that?”

  
  


“My dreams are pretty vivid. I know what I’m doing in them.” He replied drily.

 

“But you don’t remember?”

  
  


“I. Know. What. I’m. Doing.” He said the words slowly and deliberately, much like he did everything else, and so you let it drop, and an awkward silence enveloped  the room.

  
  


“I got a look at some of my files.” You finally said into the night.

  
  


“What did they say?” James’ voice was almost a whisper back to you.

  
  


“You were right.” You replied. “I didn’t ask Ivan; I couldn’t get you in trouble.”

  
  


You could feel him roll over beside you, feel his upper arm brush yours and come to rest against it. He was very close now, but it seemed that you both were comfortable, because he didn’t move, and you didn’t either.  “No. We’ve both had our memories erased.  _Probably for a reason_.”

  
  


“I was in Austria in December of 2000. It just says that I took out an arms dealer, and was assisted by an ‘asset from Hydra’. I’m assuming you were that asset.” You continued. “It also says that the false memories were replaced after that.”

  
  


“What did they replace them with?”

  
  


“I don’t know.” You sighed. “Sometimes I still dream about the ballet. I always wondered why I did. I guess it’s because I used to think I trained there.” You frowned, your thoughts bitter. You were fairly sure that the childhood you remembered now was the real one, but you weren’t positive.

  
  


“I’m sorry that happened to you, Natasha.” More sincerity from the killing machine.

  
  


“It’s fine, Soldier. James.” You smiled over at him, even though he couldn’t see itin the dark. “I remember a lot more than you do. Do you know any more about your life than you did last time we worked together?”

  
  


You felt him shake his head beside you. “No. All I can remember is what’s happened since September, really. And what I dream about, maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s not.”

  
  


“What do you dream about?” You asked him. Other than sex, which was pretty obvious.

  
  


“All kinds of things. Mostly bad things. Mostly killing. But sometimes there’s a man, I think he’s my friend. Sometimes he’s small and sometimes he’s bigger and strong. I don’t know if he’s real. It seems like it all happened a long time ago. Nobody dresses like that anymore.”

  
  


You wondered where Hydra had found this man, whom he had been. Did he have a family somewhere? Had he ever? If he was as old as the stories said he was, his family was long gone. He was from another time completely. The likelihood of whoever he saw in his dreams still being alive wasn’t good.

  
  


“Natasha?” He spoke, pulling the blanket up under his chin, against the cold night air.

  
  


“James.”

  
  


“I’ve been thinking. If you have a name that only you call me; I should have a name that only I can call you.”

  
  


You thought about this for a few minutes. You’d been on a few missions and spent a bit more time training with him since he had become James to you instead of the Soldier. You were beginning to feel a kinship with this man, for better or for worse, you couldn’t tell yet. You finally answered. “All right. That only seems fair. What do you want to call me?”

  
  


“маленький паучок. (Malenkii Pouchok) I thought about it. And.. you’re stealth and you’re quick and you’re dangerous.” He fell silent.

  
  


“Like a… pet name?” You queried, trying to understand. “But I’m already the Black Widow.”

  
  


“More like a nickname.” He shrugged. “It’s how I see you. It’s what I call you in my head.” He spoke it like it were everything else in his life; to the point and specific, but not without emotion. There was a flicker of something there, you were sure.

  
  


You actually kind of liked it. You liked that this person thought of you not as Natasha the spy, or as Black Widow the killer, but as the Little Spider, маленький паучок, something endearing. You were possibly the only friend he had, and that’s what he called you in his head. You turned towards him on the small bed in the train cabin, snaking your hand under the blankets and finding his, taking it in your own. “ маленький паучок. I like it.”

  
  


“You do?”

  
  


“Yes. I do. James.”

* * *

  
  


“You ready?” James asked you, slipping back into the room two days later. You were strapping your carbon fiber knife to your thigh with a velcro strap, your skirt pulled up to near indecent levels, your leg propped up on the edge of the bed. You saw his eyes flicker up your leg for a millisecond before settling on you face.

  
  


You smoothed out the velcro and straightened up, handing James the garrote. “I’m ready.” The room had been wiped down, even though you knew neither of your fingerprints were in any database in the world, and your suitcases had been thrown out the window a few minutes earlier.

  
  


“In and out. The car is quiet. The guard just left the northern exit; he’ll be back down in twelve minutes. The southern door is unlocked.” He rattled off the information to you. Cool and collected and on a mission. James was the Soldier right now.

  
  


“Let’s go.” You slipped out the door, him hot on your heels, and you used your modified keycard on the room next door. The light on the door turned green, and the lock clicked open. You exchanged glances, and quietly opened it.

  
  


It was dark in the room; Mark Harvelle was sleeping, and you and James were on him in a second flat, before he had a chance to awaken, to yell, to do anything. James flipped him over, and you smothered him, and it was all over in less than two minutes. Hydra and the KGB needed this man gone, and the two of you were comissioned to do it, no questions asked, though you were secretly wondering why on earth Alexander Pierce, an American high ranking official with Hydra, would want to assassinate members of his own government. You had decided early on that you didn’t like Pierce, and everything you and James were made to do only solidified this.

  
  


James stood, slinging the body of Mark Harvelled over his shoulder easily. You tossed the room; you pocketed a thumb drive, slung a laptop case over your shoulder, and looked out the door. The coast was clear. You checked your watch. You still had six minutes before the guard came back. You motioned to James, and you both hightailed it down the hallway, out the southern exit, and up the ladder to the top of the train. It had all been planned, very carefully, in advance. The train would be slowing down to cross a river at 11:02 this evening, and that’s when the two of you would jump, along with the operative’s body, into the water below. It was 11:00 now, and the train was slowing down a great deal, but the winds on top of the train cars were still hitting you with a force that was brutal. You steeled yourself against it, and dropped low, waiting for the right moment.

  
  


The river came into view. As the train began to cross, James tossed the body off the side. He looked over at you. You weren’t sure what the look on his face was, but it wasn’t his usual calm, or his usual bravery. You thought it was fear. You’d never known this man to be afraid, or even slightly bothered, by anything. Until now. He was peering off the side of the locomotive, and in the moonlight you could see the color drain from his face.

  
  


“James, what’s wrong? We need to jump.”

  
  


“I don’t know if I can.” He looked down, and he looked terrified. He looked back up at you with big eyes. The train was going incredibly slow, but what you two were about to do was still very dangerous.

  
  


“I’m not thrilled about it either, but I’m even less thrilled to be caught on top of a train with a murdered agent. We need to go.” You gripped his arm.

  
  


“I think I’ve done this before, and I think it ended badly.” He shook his head as though to clear it. “I feel like this is how I died.”

  
  


“You aren’t dead. You’re on top of a train with me.” You pulled on his arm now. “James, we need to do this. Do you trust me?”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Do you trust me?” Your hair was whipping around your face, and so was his.

  
  


He nodded.

  
  


“I’m scared too. But we’ll be fine.” You held out your hand. He took it.

  
  


“ _I trust you_.”

  
  


“Then let’s go.” You stepped to the edge. The train was in the middle of the river now. It was going to be quite a swim to either side. You pulled him with you, but before you could jump, he stopped you. You turned to face him; he had pulled you gently towards him, his hand settling on your cheek, cupping your face. He pressed his lips to yours; there was that fire again, that buzzing, that feeling of being alive. On top of the train, with the soldier, about to jump. He pulled away as quickly as he’d kissed you. “What was that for?”

  
  


“For luck.” He took a deep breath, and you both leapt from the train and into the dark water below.


	5. Part 5: Like Satellites

_Present_

 

“Jesus, Nat. I think you outran me by about five laps this morning. You need to _chill_.” Clint shook his head, regarding you wearily. It was early morning, the day after your ruined date with Ryan, the day after Bucky had found you at your club, the day after a tired evening together watching television to stave off the demons that always came for both of you in the night. You'd been woken up by a rapping on your door at 5am sharp; it had been Clint. You always went running at 5am on Mondays, though the more you thought about it, the more you wondered why and exactly who's idea it had originally been all those years ago... _oh yeah, yours._ _It had been your idea._

 

As it were, you were full of energy. Mostly, you were full of anxiety, and that always flowed out of you via training and excersize. Clint knew it; he'd figured it out a long time ago and now you could never really hide it from him. He may not usually know the reason for your discomfort, but he always knew that it was lurking somewhere. You had a feeling this time he did know why to some extent; as the only person who also knew about your history with Bucky, you figured he must have put two and two together, but he was subtle enough to not bring it up. You bounced up on your toes, rubbing your hands together to warm them up in the early spring morning, and leaned against the counter while your friend poured two mugs of coffee. He added cream and sugar to his; yours, he passed to you black. “Like your soul.” He joked, raising his eyebrow at you. You rolled your eyes and took a sip.

 

“Seriously what is with you this morning?” He stirred his coffee. “I usually keep pace pretty well, but you were pulling some serious Steve 'On Your Left' Rogers bullshit on me today. How much sleep did you get?”

 

“Not much.” You winked at him, taking another drink of your beverage. It was best to throw him off; you really didn't want to talk about it.

 

“Ryan again?”

 

You nodded.

 

“How's that going?” His interest was piqued, and a hopeful look splashed across his face.

 

“It's... not.” You sighed. “You know how I am, Barton. Out of sight, out of mind.”

 

“Yeah well I knew it wasn't serious but... did something happen?” Clint frowned at you. He seemed to think Ryan the pilot would tame your wild heart, or something along those lines. He always seemed genuinely upset that there was no real relationship to speak of and that you preferred it that way. Try as he might, he never could understand your complete lack of desire for a partner. _Or rather, your lack of desire for a partner since Bucky._ Clint knew the basics, but even he didn't know the black spot that the Winter Soldier had left on your heart. Sometimes you wondered if Clint had figured out you even had a heart.

 

“Yeah, something did, but it's no big deal. It's just done.” You smiled. “Let's take our coffee to the TV room. It's freezing in this kitchen.” You turned on your heel, the conversation stalled and hopefully broken, and retreated across the hall. The light was still off in the common room, and you clicked it on. A familiar form still lay on the couch, his breathing quiet and hypnotic, in and out, in and out. _Bucky._

 

“Does he usually sleep in here?” Clint gave the slumbering mass of a man a strange look. You faced him, shaking your head slightly.

 

“He fell asleep in here last night.”

 

“And you know this how?” Your friend looked at you inquisitively. He sure was asking a lot of questions this morning.

 

“Neither of us could sleep. We watched TV and then he was out like a light, and I went to bed.”

 

Clint took that in for a moment; you could see all of his questions and concerns floating in his head and him ultimately decide against asking any of the important ones. “What do two former Russian agents watch when they can't sleep?” He finally went with the light hearted approach. Thank God for Clint.

 

“Star Trek.” You replied levelly. “Voyager.” You begin making your way to the sofa. It was almost time for training in the gymnasium. Best for Bucky to not sleep through it.

 

“Oh. Because of course. Star Trek Voyager.” Clint said facetiously behind you.

 

You approached the reclined portion of the sofa, ignoring your friend's quips, and focused on the man sleeping. He was stretched out, one arm above his head, the other holding tight to the blanket you'd placed over him the night before. Hair splayed across his forehead and into his eyes. The other avengers (except Thor) always gave him good natured crap about getting a haircut. You preferred it long and disheveled. He looked like your James that way; it was how you remembered him and you weren't ready for that image to change.

 

“Bucky?” You were hesitant to touch him; just as it was with you, it was dangerous to make contact with him while he was asleep or otherwise not expecting it. More so with him, you'd assume. People in your line of work were always on guard; people in his were kept in the dark and constantly ready to fight for their lives. You didn't think that would be trained out of him any time soon; seventy years was a long time to stay on the edge and not fall over it.

 

He stirred slightly, turning his face towards your voice and grumbling to himself. You reached down; you couldn't help yourself. Your fingers brushed against his shoulder, moving down to his elbow. “Hey Soldier, we have training soon. Wake up.” The words came out entirely more familiar than you anticipated, and much more gently. It crossed your mind that Clint was still watching, but you paid it no mind.

 

Upon hearing you call him Soldier, Bucky's eyes opened. He smiled, his hand traveling lazily to find yours, his pupils unfocused. He looked up at you. “мой паучок” (Moy Pauchok) he said, his voice hazy. “ _Good morning._ ”

 

You drew in a sharp breath, your hand freezing as his fingers danced over it. _Did he remember? What was happening?_ Your breath caught in your throat, and your chest felt like it were going to explode.

 

But his eyes then focused on your face, and he seemed to snap awake. He sat up, running a hand through his hair and looking around awkwardly. “Oh, morning Nat.” He swung his legs off the sofa as you backed away a step. He shook his head as though to clear it. “Sorry. I must have been dreaming.” He shrugged. “Things are still a little mixed up, you know?”

 

You nodded, pasting a wan smile on your own lips. “Of course. I just didn't want to startle you; but training starts in about half an hour.”

 

“Right. Thanks.” He got up, stretching. “I'm surprised I slept.” He seemed back to normal, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. This new Bucky, the one who had come to the tower, spoke a lot more than the Soldier had. You weren't sure what to think of it, really, but you figured it was a step in the right direction for him. “Oh, hey Barton.” He tilted his head at Clint, and made his way out of the room. “I'll see you guys in the gym.”

 

Part of you was relieved, absolutely relieved, that he hadn't realized what he'd said. He'd called you your nickname, and he was the only one who had ever called you that, the only one who had ever known about it. But another part of you died a little that morning; you hadn't realized how much you missed the little things; that name, мой паучок,my spider, hadn't entered your mind in a very very long time.

 

“What did he just call you?” Clint asked, as you sat down on the sofa and pulled a throw over your legs. You clicked on the news.

 

“I have no idea.” You lied.

 

“That was clearly Russian, or I'm losing my touch.”

 

“I don't know what to say, Barton. Either your hearing aids are failing, or you're shit at linguistics.”

* * *

 

“So this is bullshit. Why the hell is Sabretooth trying to rob a bank?” Tony quipped into your comm, all of your comms, later that day. Halfway through training, the alarm had gone up; a bank heist in New Jersey. Sabretooth was laying waste to a whole street of banks, going in, tearing open safes, and sending getaway drivers off with millions. Normally bank jobs weren't in the Avenger's repertoire; but insane clawed supervillians _were_ part of your M.O., and so those of you who were currently at the tower had dropped everything, loaded up into a jet, and gained entrance to the building that Sabretooth was now in.

 

“It seems dishonorable to steal the wealth of another.” Thor muttered to himself. His voice rang into our ear, though he was out in the street, helping Tony wrangle nameless hooligans and catch getaway drivers.

 

“Yeah... honorable and Sabretooth don't really go hand in hand.” Steve replied. You heard him grunt; looking around a corner, you saw him get hit in the gut by Sabretooth's huge fist. You hurled a taser disc at him; it barely phased the animalistic man, but it gave Cap enough time to right himself, and send his shield flying into the bigger man's face.

 

“Are you children getting along all right up there? I'm almost done rounding up these idiots in the Brinks trucks. Why would they steal Brinks trucks? There's Lo-jack in all of them...” Tony trailed off, then spoke again. “Please tell me there's a fight to break up up there. A real fight.”

 

A door across the room was torn from it's hinges; you'd grown accustomed to this method of entry a long time ago, and knew Bucky was incoming. He'd never been very subtle. He stepped into the room. “The hired thugs at Bank of the West are all in handcuffs and...” He trailed off, watching Steve and Sabretooth slug it out. “You couldn't wait for backup Steve?”

 

“Never was my strong suit.” Steve replied dryly, dodging another punch and the claws that followed. You leapt on Sabretooth, grabbing him by his neck and trying to choke him out. He tossed you easily off; Bucky came flying at him in the same instant, landing a kick to his head. Sabretooth roared. He flailed wildly, throwing Bucky against a wall, pounding a foot into Steve's chest, and leaping out a window.

 

The three of you followed, tumbling out over the broken glass onto the adjoining rooftop. Bucky was closest to Sabretooth, but the villain had clawed his way up over a wall, onto another roof, and was out of sight. Bucky reached for a grappling hook stuck in his belt to follow, but your mind went back, way back. Before thinking, you started running at him.

 

“James... Bucky! Up top!” You flew at him, you hadn't bothered to stop to question if he would know what you were doing or not. A decade was erased at that moment; you were both once again teamed up to fight a common enemy, and you'd done this a thousand times before. Bucky, immediately and without hesitation, dropped to one knee. You raced towards him, planting one foot on his knee, the second on his shoulder, moving easily up his body like water. He stood as you climbed up his body, giving you the momentum to leap off of his shoulders and flip up onto the roof. One last glimpse down as you careened over the ledge, and you saw the same thing you'd seen every time you'd done this; he drew both of his guns, one to cover behind you, and one to cover the ledge you were jumping up to. _The body remembers what the mind does not._

 

You took off after Sabretooth, clearing the roof edge. You saw something fly towards the big man from the left; it was Clint on a balcony across the street, and it was an arrow. It stuck into Sabretooth's side, winding him, but not stopping him. He growled, jumped down the side of the building all the way to the ground. It was easily three floors; you couldn't follow. You watched as he tore open a manhole and disappeared into the sewer below. Hearing footsteps behind you, you turned and saw Bucky and Steve approaching. They'd rappelled up the wall, and came sliding to a halt beside you.

 

They both leapt down after Sabretooth, and you had to take the long way to avoid breaking your legs, but you all eventually ended up combing the sewer for Sabretooth. He inevitably got away from you.

 

Bucky was silent on the way back to the tower. Once there, you took the stairs down to your floor; you didn't feel like waiting for an elevator with the rest of everyone. No one had seemed to notice the odd amount of teamwork exhibited between you and the former Winter Soldier, but it was stuck on your mind and floating in your head, the implications of your actions, of his actions. Lost in thought, you rounded the staircase, almost to your floor, when you heard a door bang open above you.

 

“Nat?” Bucky's low voice reverberated over the stairs. You stopped. Dread filled your heart, and longing, as well.

 

“Barnes?” You called back. “I'm on floor 18.” You waited for him; you didn't want to, but there wasn't really a way to slip away unnoticed. He came jogging quickly down the steps; not out of breath at all, despite the cigarettes you knew he was still smoking when he was by himself. He halted before you, regarding you warily. “You need something?” You asked.

 

“You called me James.” He took a deep breath.

 

“What?” You knew exactly what he was speaking of; you had slipped up, and you _had_ called him James. And whether that had triggered his mind, or the muscle memory of a hundred missions in the past, you weren't sure. But clearly something was bothering Bucky.

 

“You called me James. Right before you ran at me and... over the wall.” He made a gesture, a slight wave of his hand, to indicate you leaping over the roof. “You called me James.” His eyes, under dark brows, were confused and serious. “Why?”

 

You shrugged flippantly. “It slipped out.”

 

“You never call me James.”

 

You gulped. He didn't remember. So you made something up. “I knew your file before I knew you. Your name is James in your file.”

 

He seemed to not really believe this, but his brow stopped creasing, and he looked relieved. You felt bad; this was a man used to being fed lies, lies he may not believe all the way but that he made himself believe. And you were doing the same thing to him. “Okay... okay. That makes sense.” He leaned back against the railing. “It was like I knew what you were going to do. Again.” He shook his head. You knew you were confusing him, and you felt a small twinge of guilt.

 

“We're both highly trained.” You pointed out. You smiled, placing a hand on his arm. “I was hoping to God you'd know what I needed you to do, Barnes. And you did.”

 

“Yeah. I did.” He didn't look convinced, but he looked oddly comfortable, as though some secret knowledge, some secret bond, was something that made him feel right. “We make a pretty good team.”

 

You grinned. “Don't tell Steve that. He might get jealous.” You turned to trek the rest of the way down the stairs. You heard heavy steps following you. At your floor, you nodded at him and departed, listening to his hulking form continue down the stairs. He left you with an odd look on his face; he looked like he remained unconvinced, but just as he had for the last seven decades, he was taking what he'd been told at face value.

 

It hurt your heart, but you could never tell him. You'd thought about it a lot in the last few weeks, and it wasn't the fact that you'd been lovers. You could handle that, and whatever pain and confusion it would inevitably bring. It wasn't that you'd been assassins, murderers, either. You'd done a lot of things you had to atone for. But you couldn't tell him, you absolutely couldn't, because deep down, you felt like you could have stopped them coming for him. You could have stopped them, but you hadn't. _And they had come. And they had taken your James away._

 

 

_26 December, 2002. Night._

 

You had been cold before, truth be told you were usually cold, but you swore you had never been _this_ cold. The water that enveloped you, after that kiss and that leap from the train, was so frigid, you were certain you were about to die. The fact that it wasn't frozen over was a miracle; whether it was the quick currents, or maybe it was saltwater, you weren't sure, and you'd been originally thankful for a way off the train. But now, with the wind knocked out of your lungs and your limbs losing feeling, you weren't so certain. There had to have been a better way off of that train car.

 

Your head broke the water and you gasped for air, but it was so cold, you couldn't take a breath. Your fingers gripped the laptop bag; your handlers would be able to salvage something from the waterlogged computer. You looked around, lungs burning, and saw another head pop out from the depths. James. He saw you, and swam towards you. You were vaguely aware of the train chugging out of sight.

 

He reached your side. “That way.” He coughed out, pointing to the riverbank closest to you. It was still so far away; you could barely make it out in the bright moonlight. You both began to swim, when a light flicked on, and you could hear voices calling.

 

“Widow. Soldier. This way.” A man's voice shouted. You both turned, and saw a small boat, with a strong flashlight illuminating the path through the water.

 

“Oh thank God, they made it in time.” You whispered.

 

“Weren't they supposed to meet us on the banks?” James asked, pivoting in the water and making his way after you to the boat. You didn't answer; it wasn't that you were being rude, but you couldn't. You were too cold, you couldn't feel your fingers or your feet anymore. The boat came towards you, and strong hands reached down; several people, pulling you and James roughly over the ledge and depositing you unceremoniously onto the floor of the craft, beside the dead body of your former mark. You rolled away from the corpse, taking deep thankful breaths now that you were out of the water.

 

The Soldier pulled himself together faster than you did; probably the cryo made him better able to handle the cold, or whatever experiments you suspected Hydra must have tried on him. It had become very clear in the last few months that no matter how strong you were, he was stronger. You were at the physical peak, the best of the best; yet he was a step above anything you had ever encountered-it had to be unnatural. He sat up, nearly unphased by the freezing water that drenched his body and his clothing, turning to the the man who had just rescued you from the river. “You were to meet us on the banks. That was the plan.” He spoke gruffly. So far you were the only person you'd heard him take a less harsh tone with.

 

“Yeah.” The man, who, now that you could see him, was an agent named Liev, nodded. “Ivan decided you may need some help out of the water. Turns out, he was right.” Liev lit up a cigar, and turned the boat towards the shore. “There's some blankets under the seat. On shore there's a van; it should be plenty warm.” He steered the boat the rest of the way in silence. You knew that Liev, and the other men on the boat, didn't much care whether they retrieved you alive or dead, as long as the mark was taken care of, the data safe, and all bodies were out of the water and couldn't be traced. It was the cold reality of the Program. _Maybe they were really there to retrieve James; maybe Hydra didn't want to risk losing him to the depths of some freezing Russian river._

 

Once at the shore, the body was loaded into a cooler truck. You didn't know where it was headed and you didn't much care. You and James were directed to a van; you climbed into the back. You were glad to find it heated. There was a bench seat along each wall, and a locker at the front. The doors were closed behind you. “Three hours til we get to base camp. Blankets in the lockers.” Liev yelled through the door, then it was silent.

 

“They aren't much for theatrics.” You lamented at the Soldier. He shrugged and grunted slightly, then opened the lockers. Inside were blankets, wool and scratchy but warm. You quickly stripped off your soaking clothes. James did the same, neither of you leaving any article on your bodies. This didn't bother you, and it didn't seem to bother the Soldier. Your body was first and foremost a weapon, and second a physical extension of yourelf, and you assumed this to be the same with him. You both wrapped up in the blankets, and sat across from one another on the bench seats. You weren't sure if the agents that had been sent just assumed you'd stay fully dressed in waterlogged clothing, but that couldn't happen. You'd both die.

 

You were still freezing. You had grabbed a small cushion from the locker as well, and finally lay out on the bench, your wet hair soaking the travel pillow. The heater was on, and you were wrapped in several blankets, but you couldn't get warm. Your teeth chattered; nevertheless, you tried to drift off to sleep. You'd been through worse, much worse. You'd get through this like you got through everything.

 

“Natasha.” His voice carried out through the dark van.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I can hear you shivering.”

 

“We just jumped in a river in Russia in December. I'm a bit cold.” You turned your face towards the sound of his breathing. “How are you not?”

 

“I'm cold. But I'll be fine.” He replied. “Come here.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I can keep you warm. You need to get warm.”

 

You knew he wasn't being forward; he didn't think like that, at least you didn't think he did. He was all about survival, all about common sense and necessity. And for some reason he found your well being a necessity. Instead of replying with sarcasm, you dragged yourself off of your bench, covered the few feet between the two of you quickly, and sat down beside him. The lure of body heat was too much.

 

“We won't both fit on the bench seat. Get on the floor.” It was a statement, more of a command. You didn't take commands from anyone but your superiors; however, it wasn't rough, it wasn't mean, and it wasn't an outright order. It was a suggestion. And it made sense. You still couldn't feel your feet. You both slid off of the bench seat, onto the floor. He opened up his blankets, pulling your body close to his, and immediately warmth began radiating from his body into yours. His arms wrapped around you, his legs intertwined with yours, and some semblance of feeling began emanating back into your limbs. He kept a layer of wool between his metal arm and your skin; you knew it would be cold.

 

“You kissed me, on the train.” You finally spoke. Your head lay on his shoulder, you were strangely comfortable. You weren't keen on letting most people touch you, but for some reason it was different with the Soldier. Blankets were piled high around you, and if you hadn't been in the back of a van, freezing in the backwoods of Russia, it would have almost been cozy. You felt him nod. “Why?” You asked.

 

“I told you. For luck.” He answered.

 

“You don't seem like you're afraid of anything, Soldier. James.” Your fingers had finally stopped aching with cold. “But you were scared to jump.”

 

“Yes.” He finally agreed. “I think... I think that's how I lost my arm. A train. I'm not sure. But I had a... a flashback.”

 

You'd seen the scars; the jagged edge of metal jutting in and out of the skin on his shoulder. Now you ran tentative fingers along the cool metal and the warm skin beside it. “You don't remember not having it?”

 

He shook his head. “No.”

 

“And you can feel everything?”

 

“Yes.” He nodded again. “Not pain. Not really. I've been conditioned to know what everything is, but it's not like my other arm. It's a little bit... foreign.” He reached up to stop your hand from touching the metal. “Your hands are still cold.”

 

“You could feel that?” You asked, surprised.

 

“No. I just know they're still cold. You're still shaking.” He let go of your hand, knowing that his metal one wouldn't warm it. He pulled the blanket tighter. “I need to get you warm.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“You're helping. I'm fine. You aren't. You're too cold.”

 

“I'll be fine, James. I've had worse.”

 

“I'd prefer you not to suffer, if I can help it, Natasha.” His words were firm, but kind, in the dark. You closed your eyes. Something like that was strange to hear, but it was nice. Comforting. You thought of a lot of things your could say back, but true to your nature, you didn't say much.

 

“Thank you.”

 

you stayed like that for a while, under the wool blankets, skin to skin. When you stopped shivering and your teeth stopped chattering completely, you extricated yourself from the tangle of limbs on the floor. You found that you were almost sorry to pull away; something to think about later. When the van arrived at the base camp a few hours later, and the doors were opened, the agents found each of you feigning sleep on a bench seat, on opposite ends of the van.

* * *

 

_Present_

 

You were back at the club a few days later. This time you weren't going to call anyone; no Ryan, no hookups, you were just there, because you felt safe, and lost in the crowd. The music thudded through your rib-cage, and you moved your body to it, dancing in the masses of people. Just another young person, hiding from something just like the rest of them.

 

A figure approached you from the right; a hand on your arm, snapping you out of your daze and bringing you back. You were about to swing at them; when you realized you knew him. It was Bucky.

 

“What the fuck?” You frowned at him. He had you by the arm, and he pulled you from the dance floor, over towards the wall.

 

“I need to talk to you.” He had a serious look on his face. His Henley shirt was unbuttoned at the neck; his leather jacket unzipped, and his hair pulled back haphazardly into a ponytail. He hadn't dressed to go clubbing. His eyes were dark and he had bags under them; he was apparently back to not sleeping, as were you. You were frankly surprised they'd let him into the club like this.

 

“I thought you said you'd stay away from my place, Bucky.” You glared at him, turning to walk away. “This is _me time_. It can wait until tomorrow, as long as the earth isn't in danger.”

 

He reached out, placing a hand on both of your forearms, and pulled you back. His gaze was dark and imploring. He pushed you against the wall, not roughly, and you knew you could get away; he would never trap you and you knew it, even if he didn't. But he had used enough force that you knew he was done with your crap, and he was serious.

 

“ _What_?” You spat out, shaking his hands off, and crossing your arms in front of you. “What is so important that you had to come find me in the middle of the night? In the one place I've claimed for myself? You couldn't call me? You couldn't text me?”

 

The next words he spoke to you sent shivers down your spine, and your heart racing. “No. I couldn't call you, Nat.” He braced himself with one arm against the wall. “I think I'm starting to remember everything. _And mostly, I remember you, Natasha._ ”

 

Continued in part 6: Ghost Stories

 


	6. Part 6: Ghost Stories

_31 December, 2002 - Volgograd, Russia. Night._

  
  


You knew the Soldier, James, sat at one of the windows of the old industrial building across the street, his rifle assembled and ready for use. You peered out the window of the hotel room you were waiting in, across the snowy street and into the dilapidated concrete building; you located where he was, fifteen floors up and six windows from the right. True to form, he was hidden from your view. You were used to being on dangerous missions, often alone. Knowing he was there, with a straight view and a clean shot, made you feel safer. Safe wasn’t something you felt often, but it was a feeling that was beginning to creep up whenever James was nearby.

  
  


You waited, silently, in the hotel. The mark, a man named Luke Cage, was supposed to check into the room adjoining yours. The Program, Hydra, Alexander Pierce, and the SVR all wanted this man gone for some reason, and had sent the two of you to do it. You’d read his file; he seemed like an okay guy to you, but he was a threat to someone. You’d once again resolved yourself to do your job and not ask questions; information that was above your rank had led to him being next on your hit list.

  
  


There seemed to be a problem though. He was supposed to check in hours before, conduct a meeting, and leave. You and James were planning on severely shortening that meeting and disposing of Cage, his unsuspecting meeting partner inevitably becoming collateral damage; but he hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had the man he was meeting with. You were beginning to suspect that they weren’t going to come, and you were antsy about this. You didn’t know if they’d been tipped off and knew you were there, or if their plans had just changed. You crouched in the dark by the wall, silently rechecking your weapons and listening for any noise that seemed out of the ordinary. This wasn’t going according to plan, and you hated when things didn’t go according to plan.

  
  


You pulled your cell phone out and flipped it open. It was on silent, of course; no way would you blow your cover because of a ringing or vibrating phone. You’d missed a call; you clicked a button, entered a series of passwords, and listened to the voice mail message.

  
  


Fedorov’s voice spilled out of the phone into your ear. “Plans have changed. Bird is in flight. Mission aborted. No danger. Rendezvous at agreed upon location at 0600 hours for airlift out. Inform the Soldier.” You hung up the phone and sighed, flipping on the lights. You dialed the Soldier’s number and waited as the phone rang.

  
  


It was picked up on the other end, but you were met with nothing. James never spoke when he answered his phone. It was a bit unsettling.

  
  


“Soldier?” You asked. You knew it was him; the deafening silence couldn’t mask his presence.

  
  


“Natasha.” He replied, your name rolling off of his tongue almost like poetry.

  
  


“Mission aborted. They aren’t coming.” You told him. “Airlift is at the same place, six o'clock tomorrow morning.”

  
  


“All right.” You heard noise in the background; he had begun to disassemble his rifle. You looked around the bleak hotel room. They might have said there was no danger, but you couldn’t stay in a room next to the place you were planning on assassinating your mark. Just in case they hadn’t shown up because they’d caught wind of the plan. You didn't want to get counter-murdered in your bed.

  
  


“I’m changing back into civilian clothes and leaving the hotel.” You informed him, removing your tac suit and tugging on the jeans and sweater you’d worn when checking in earlier this afternoon.

  
  


“Are you coming over here?” James questioned, his voice slightly hopeful. You heard his rifle case click shut.

  
  


“No. I don’t want to spend the night in a cold abandoned high rise.” You buttoned your jacket. “I’m going to check into the Гостиница Волгоград (Gostinitza Volgograd- Hotel Volgograd). I’ll rent a room.”

  
  


“I’ll meet you at six tomorrow.” The soldier replied.

  
  


“You’re welcome to stay with me.” You ventured. You didn’t want your partner spending the night in a cold old building, either.  _You also liked being near him…_  You shook your head, removing those thoughts from your mind. “I can rent two rooms if you like.” You knew Hydra would never give him money or a fake identification; he couldn’t rent his own. They would expect him to sleep in the sub zero temperatures and rendezvous at 6am. The Black Widow program was harsh, but not to that extent.

  
  


“Whatever you’d like, Natasha.” His voice was rugged and deep, music to your ears. “Let me know what room. I’ll meet you there.” His end of the line clicked off.

  
  


You grabbed your suitcase and took off, hailing a taxi and instructing the driver to take you to the hotel you were familiar with. The streets were thick with people trying to get to New Years parties all over the city. You watched out the window, the women in dresses and men in slacks, all in heavy coats against the cold. It had been a long time since you’d been to a New Years party. At least it looked like you’d be spending it in a nice hotel, and not murdering some poor unsuspecting man across town. You silently thanked God for sparing whoever this Luke Cage was this evening. You’d probably have to kill him soon, but at least he’d live to see 2003.

  
  


You wondered where James was, how he was going to get to the  Гостиница Волгоград. He didn’t have civilian clothes; just a heavy coat to cover his body armor. That would have to do; no one would notice a man in a heavy coat among all the other men in heavy coats, except the Soldier was bigger, and better looking, than most other men. You leaned back and closed your eyes. You were all business, or usually so, but sometime between the cave in Siberia and today, you were afraid you’d developed some feelings for him that were too strong to deny. You’d been prepared to ignore them; you were excellent at ignoring your feelings, denying yourself emotions or connections. But everything had been solidified a few nights ago in the van after leaping from the train. ‘I’d prefer you not to suffer, if I can help it, Natasha’ he’d said to you. His words haunted you, pulled at heartstrings you didn’t know you had, hinting at a future and a bleak inevitability you couldn’t know yet. And he’d kept you warm, kept you from freezing, his calloused hands and strong arms so gently with your body, heat pouring into you. You willed yourself to stop thinking about it. You’d get two rooms; that would solve everything, at least for now. You’d suppress your emotions as you always did. You told yourself the Soldier was just an accomplice, nothing more.

  
  


The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, letting you out. You weren’t even sure if they’d have a room available; it was New Years Eve, after all. Luckily, the man at the desk told you there’d been a cancellation. Not two rooms, though, only one. You paid for the room and took the key and made your way up the floors on the elevator. You send a message to the Soldier. “Room 325. No other rooms available.”

  
  


The room was nice, a King sized bed in the center, a sink off to the side, and a small bathroom with a large tub. You turned the ringer on your phone up all the way and set it on the cabinet so that you wouldn’t miss James’s call when he arrived, removed your clothing, and stepped into a hot shower, washing off the ill will of the day. You didn’t stay in long, however. Stepping out onto the bathmat, you dried your hair and pulled on a thick cotton robe. You’d only brought two things to wear; the civilian clothes to check into the first hotel, and your tac suit. Looks like you’d be sleeping in jeans and a shirt tonight, but for now you were going to relax in the fluffy robe.

  
  


James hadn’t called, but as soon as you stepped out of the bathroom you knew he was there. Hid presence emanated through the room. How he'd broken in, you weren't sure, but he had and he was there, the clean scent of him surrounding you. He didn't smell like cologne, Hydra would never provide him such a luxury and he wouldn't know what to do with it if they did; but you were keenly perceptive of his pheromones. He sat in the shadows at the small table by the window, waiting patiently. His rifle case was by the door.

  
  


“James.” You nodded at him, pulling your robe tighter around you, cinching the belt closed in a tight knot.

  
  


“Natasha.” He replied, shifting in his seat. “This is a nice hotel. You’ve been here before?”

  
  


“Yes, I have. A few times, when I’ve been to the city on business.” You didn't have to tell him that said business was secrets and murder; he knew. You crossed the floor to the window, acutely aware of his eyes on you. You pulled the curtain back and looked down at the street. There was a party in the building across the way; people dancing and reveling, spilling out onto the sidewalk. “It’s New Years Eve though; we were lucky to get a room tonight at all.”

  
  


He was behind you now, following your gaze to the party goers drinking and living it up below. “People celebrate on New Years Eve.” He stated.

  
  


“Yes. You don’t remember New Years?” You turned to him, looking up into his dark eyes. He was very close; closer than you’d be comfortable with regular people, but with him it was different. You were always standing too near to him lately, or he to you. Never touching, just  _close_.

  
  


He shook his head. “I don’t remember much.” He paused. “Maybe… maybe a little.”

  
  


“What do you remember?” You were curious. His past was shrouded in darkness. All he knew was Hydra, the strange man in his dreams, and you.

  
  


“Fuzzy pictures. Music. Alcohol.” He stopped, looking out the window and tucking hair behind his ear. “Kissing someone. At midnight. I don't know who; different someones.” He turned to you. “Is that what happens?”

  
  


“Yes.” You placed your hands on the glass. “Pretty much. Alcohol and a kiss at midnight.”

  
  


“You wish you were celebrating.” It was more of a statement than a question; but he was correct. You wished a lot of things. It wasn’t that you wanted a different life; you were good at what you did and your country needed you, and you never doubted your commitment to duty. But you often wondered what it would be like to get lost somewhere in the music and dancing bodies and not know that espionage and murder were what awaited you the next day. You glanced up at James. Your life wasn’t a careless one, and neither was his. “I’m in good company, though, James.” You smiled and looked at your watch. “It’s just about midnight.”

  
  


There was silence from the man standing beside you. He was so close, you could once again feel his body head radiating into you.  _He was always so warm._  Finally he spoke. “I’ll kiss you at midnight, Natasha.”

  
  


Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and you braced yourself against the window. Feigning nonchalance, you shot him a flirtatious smile. “For luck again this time?”

  
  


“Not for luck. Because I want to. Like last time.” Was his reply. You heard a cry go up collectively from the party down the street. It was midnight now. You turned towards the towering Soldier, your back now against the cool glass of the window. You took a deep breath. You were about to go around a corner, and you knew better, but for once, you didn’t care about the consequences.

  
  


“All right.” You looked up into his eyes. “It’s midnight then.” You saw the corners of his lips twitch up in a smile, and he took a step towards you, heavy boots to the floor, sliding his hands onto you and settling on your hips. You hesitated only a moment, then trailed your fingers up and placing your palms on his upper arms, leaning in as he bent towards you. Your lips connected after what felt like an eternity, and you felt the familiar electrical charge that ran so strongly between the two of you. Your eyes closed. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting; you didn’t think he remembered kissing, not this kind anyway, but he sure seemed to know how to do it. He was soft and slow at first, and you half expected a small peck and for him to step back, just a kiss at midnight for a lonely woman wishing she were somewhere else. But he didn’t step away, and it wasn’t chaste, not by any means. His mouth was skillful and stayed on yours; he bit your bottom lip gently, leaning you back pressed against the window, no space between your bodies. His tongue slipped into your mouth just a bit, his lips working over yours. You fell into it, into him, trying to pull his strong body even closer even though that was impossible. He moved his hands from your hips and braced himself, his palms against the glass, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless, your arms around him and up his back. It seemed that no matter how much of his body was touching yours, you couldn’t pull him near enough.

  
  


“Natasha, I-” He began, pulling away for just a second, then going back in for another kiss.

  
  


“I know.” You replied, arms around his neck now, standing on tiptoes to reach him better. His hands were on you again now, removed from the cool window; strong fingers around our waist and up your sides. He’d left his armor by the door but still wore his pants, gun belt, and a thick black thermal shirt. Your fingers moved to the buckle of his belt, undoing it and letting it drop to the floor, heavy with weapons and ammunition. You toyed with the hem of his shirt, his lips still memorizing yours.

  
  


“Take it off.” He breathed into you, _commanded you_ , and it was up and over his head, thrown into the darkness of the room and forgotten. His fingers, flesh and metal, were working at the knot you’d secured in your robe, undoing it quickly and skillfully. You felt hands slide into your robe and up your body to your back, pulling you flush against his chest, and you knew you were playing with fire, but you didn’t care. You turned quickly, drew the curtains closed, dropped your robe, and pushed the Winter Soldier onto the bed.

* * *

_15 February, 2003 – Oslo, Sweden_

  
  


Light poured in the window of the safe house, and you opened your eyes. A strong arm was around you, a firm body pressed up behind you under the heavy blankets. You smiled to yourself. After the success at stealing information from a security company the night before, you’d been able to spend some time alone with James, retreating to the small apartment near the river. It was difficult, stealing time with one another. Neither one of you would be reckless on a mission; but the mission was over and you’d both needed rest, and it was as good an excuse as any to postpone the drive back to Moscow. It was a reason the Program and Hydra would believe; you both may be strong, but everyone needed sleep.

  
  


You’d fully expected the situation on New Years Eve to happen only once; for things to revert back to how they had been previously. If James hadn’t decided to stop things after one time, then you had resolved that you would stop them. But you found, upon waking and catching the helicopter back on the first day of the New Year; upon meeting his gaze on the ride home over and over, seeing the small knowing smile he gave you and the feeling it sent through you, that you didn’t want it to never happen again. And neither did he. It hadn’t taken long to fall into step with this man, no time at all, and you were a little surprised. The two of you were harsh and deadly all of the time until you were alone together; the sex was intense, and he had been right, he did know what he was doing.

  
  


You rolled over now, on that day in mid February, finding James already awake. He was looking up at the ceiling, an uncharacteristically sot, sleepy look on his face. His gaze softened more as you turned, pressing the length of your body against him and sliding a hand across his flat stomach and around his waist. “мой паучок” (My spider) he whispered, kissing your shoulder.

  
  


“мой воин” (Moy Voin- my Warrior) You smiled back at him. But a thought crept into your mind, one that had kept rearing it’s head over and over lately. You tried to get rid of it, but he had noticed the change in your demeanor.

  
  


“What’s wrong, Natasha?” He propped himself on an elbow, looking down at you in concern. He was a weapon to the entire world, but he was a man to you.

  
  


“It’s nothing.”

  
  


“Something is bothering you.” He raised a eyebrow in worry, his eyes shifting and scanning the parts of your body that were visible beyond the blankets. “Was I too rough last night?”

  
  


You smiled impishly. “No, of course not. Last night was just right.”

  
  


“Then what is it?”

  
  


You sat up, crossing your bare legs Indian style in front of you, pulling the sheet up to cover your chest. “James, what if they wipe you again?” You looked at him, at all of him. First you’d relied on him as your partner, to watch your back and you to watch his. He’d become more than a partner now, and you were confident that no one knew, but that couldn’t possibly hold forever. You were an expert liar, but James wasn't a spy, no matter how hard you trained him, and sometimes you were afraid that they would see the way he looked at you. Even if no one found out, eventually the Black Widow Program and Hydra ties would be severed. You knew this. He knew this.“What if you forget me?”

  
  


“It won’t happen.” He reached up and ran a hand down your cheek. “I won’t forget you. I can’t.”

  
  


“They’ll play with your mind, James. They’ve done it before.”

  
  


“And it didn’t work. I remembered you.” He looked at you seriously. “I’d only ever met you once at that point. Ran a mission. Stitched you up. Nothing more. And I _still_ remembered you.”

  
  


You nodded. You still didn’t remember the Austria mission with the Soldier, back when you’d been eighteen but still just as deadly. You’d never talked about it, besides him telling you that you'd barely even known one another and nothing had happened between the two of you, but you’d been etched in his mind, the red haired Black Widow. He’d gone into cryo after that mission and only been let out in September to work with you again.

  
  


“They’ll try harder to erase it if they find out.” This worry had settled itself into you weeks before; it had had time to fester. You didn't want his mind to be completely destroyed because of you.

  
  


He shook his head again. “They can’t erase you,  мой паучок. I feel you in here.” He pressed your hand to his chest; his strong heartbeat resonating into your palm. “They can erase my mind, it won’t matter.”

  
  


You closed your eyes, hand still resting on his chest. Your heart swelled, and you weren't used to that happening. Nothing that you felt for the Soldier was normal for you. Opening them, you traced the line where his metal arm met his flesh. This time he let you, watching you with a gaze that never wavered. “All right.” You finally answered, gripping his bicep and pulling yourself close to his body, sliding under the covers until your legs were entwined with his and you were back in his arms. You closed your eyes. “We have to leave soon. We can’t stay here too long or they’ll wonder.”

  
  


“I know.” He looked at you sadly, but leaned in and kissed you. You rolled on top of him, hands in his hair, pulling slightly. He beamed up at you. “You know, I like when you do that, Natasha.”

* * *

  
  


_Present day_

He braced himself with one arm against the wall. “I think I'm starting to remember everything. _And mostly, I remember you, Natasha._ ” He was leaning in close and you were very aware of it; not close like when you were sparring, not close like when you were both watching TV last week on the sofa at three am; _close and familiar_. A lock of brown hair hung down into his eyes, and his muscular frame leaned forward, his body nearly a cage around you. Your own body was telling you to close your eyes and lean in towards him; tell him everything would be okay even though you knew it wasn't and probably never could be. You resisted the urge; time travel wasn't possible and you were here, now, a decade since your last kiss, and everything was different. A decade of forced forgetting, and then he'd been back in your world and all of the regret had come back. Now it looked like it was about to fall around you. Still, you would try one last time to shoulder the burden and place it back behind a locked door, as foolish as the attempt would be.

 

“That's ridiculous. You barely know me.” You but on a stern face, tried your pissed off voice back on for size, and met his gaze. Your hand itched to push his hair behind his ear; you didn't. The techno music thumped around you, vibrating the wall you were leaning against and your body and his, but the music melted into the background and all that you could focus on was you and him.

 

“I used to know you. You used to know me.” He brushed the strand away himself, eyes never leaving you, pupils blown and staring holes into your own.

 

“Bucky, no.” You couldn't come up with a viable lie. You didn't even know what he remembered.

 

“ _Yes_.” He forced the word out, then his mouth set in a stern line.

 

“You don't know what you're talking about, Bucky.” You weren't giving in, at least not until he gave you some information.

 

“Stop calling me Bucky.”

 

“That's your name.”

 

“ _Not to you._ ” His eyes were fierce and his nostrils flared slightly, as though he were losing his patience and sinking into anger. “You called me 'Soldier'. Or 'James'.” His gaze flicked to the ground, to the limited space between you. Seeming to realize his stance had gotten intimidating, he quickly backed up a few inches. He looked back at you, and his demeanor had changed from frustration to grief. “You'd sometimes call me your 'Warrior'.”

 

Your eyes went wide. He did remember. You closed your lids, taking a deep breath. You tried one last time, one last desperate time to shove the past away, for both of your sakes. “These are just the dreams you told Steve about. I'm not that girl. She may not even be real.”

 

He drew back even more. “How do you know about those?”

 

You shrugged. “I was in the pantry and heard you talking one day. I wasn't ever going to bring it up, but I have to, since you're so convinced it's me.” You gazed out at the dancers, then back at him. “I'm sorry, Bucky. You've been erased so many times, and reprogrammed; who knows what memories of yours are even real.” It was a low blow, but you were doing it.

 

His shoulders slumped. “They _are_ real. I remember you; your hair was longer, and you were younger, I don't know how long ago it was.” He trailed off. When he was met with silence, he continued. “A man named Ivan. And a mission on a train where I first kissed you.” You heart jumped when he said that, but you continued to stare at him blankly, as though these events didn't exist. “God damn it, Natasha! I know you remember this. I know it's real!” He had turned and leaned against the wall himself as he grew more and more upset, but then he whirled back, pressing his hands to the wall on either side of you. He was desperate to make you understand; the energy radiated off of him like his body heat used to when you were together, and it whirled around you, almost tangible.

 

“You'll have to be more specific.” You finally choked out. He'd gotten to you. The Black Widow's legendary defenses were cracked. “How well do you think we know each other?” One last try. You had to be sure of what he remembered, because there were things that, if he didn't know already, you'd take with you and hide til the end.

 

“Specific?” He stared into your eyes, nearly a glare in fact. “You have a rose tattoo below your left breast, and a scar. It's from a knife wound and eight stitches, stitches that I put there.” He kept going, moving in closer, his words getting lower. It was a gesture you both welcomed and dreaded. “You have a birthmark on the back of your right shoulder, the size of a pencil eraser.”

 

“You could have gotten all of that from my dossier. It could have found it's way into your dreams.” You explained away.

 

“I didn't get it from any dossier, and it's not all dreams.” He informed you calmly, the storm of frustration still in his eyes but no longer reaching his actions. _This was the soldier you were used to._ _Rage on the inside, calm on the outside._ “You have another birthmark, on your inner thigh. Way up high. It looks like a dove.” Your eyes went wide again and he let that hang in the air a few moments.

 

“That's probably not on my dossier.” You finally admitted, eyes turned towards the ground. His hands moved from the wall and fell gently onto your shoulders, and try as you might you couldn't stop your eyes from turning away from the floor and the dancers and returning up to his.

 

“How well did we know each other, Natasha? I don't have any sense of time, but, I know... I know it happened. We happened. It doesn't matter that they erased me. I feel it here.” He brushed his hand defeatedly across his chest. “How well do you know me?”

 

You took a deep breath. Your weeks, months of pain and subterfuge were over. For better or for worse, you were going to tell him the truth, as much of it as you could really allow. “Come on, let's go.” You put your hand to his chest now, and he fell into it, but you pushed him back and began walking.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“I have an hotel room across the street. We can't do this here.” You stopped and looked back, making sure he was following you. He was. “We have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

 


	7. Part 7: The Badlands

_Present Day_

 

Bucky followed you closely, out of the club, across the street, into the hotel, and up to your room. You unlocked the door with your key card, Room 325. _Odd_ , you thought, stopping and looking at the door number. _You'd been in room 325 on that fateful New Year's Eve, thirteen years before._

 

“Room 325.” Bucky said under his breath. You froze. _Did he remember?_ You turned to him, your brow arched, your back against the door. “I remember a different night, with the same room number.” He explained calmly. He leaned forward, his face inching towards yours, and you drew in a breath, but he only reached around you, twisting the knob and swinging the door open. You took a step backward into the dark room, turned, flicked on the light, and tossed your purse onto the table.

 

Bucky surveyed the room. It was nice; a queen bed in the middle with a soft white comforter and two pillows, dark red curtains on the window leading to the balcony, and an armoire against the wall disguising a large television. True to form, you had the armoire closed, creating a clean and streamlined, almost ageless look in the space. This struck you; it could have been now, or it could have been 2003, you would never know by looking at your surroundings.

 

“Why do you even have an hotel room? The tower isn't far.” He asked you. He stood in the entry, broad shoulders filling the space, seemingly not knowing where he should go or what he should be doing.

 

“I was planning on drinking tonight. Not going to drive. Didn't want to bother with an Uber.” You ducked at the minibar and pulled out two small bottles of whiskey. “I needed to get away.” You gave him a meaningful look, poured each bottle into a plastic cup, and handed him one. You knew it would do nothing for him, but it was polite and you didn't want to be drinking alone.

 

“Thanks.” He took it, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. “You needed to get away from me?” You pushed the glass doors open out to the balcony. The cool spring night fell around your skin like a blanket. You turned back to Bucky.

 

“Come on.” You stepped out, ignoring the question, sipping your drink and leaning against the railing. The club was across the street, the neon sign lit up in the night sky. He approached, standing beside you. It felt nice, as much as you didn't want to admit it, to have him by your side again. You looked over at him. He still wore his leather jacket; his disheveled hair and two days worth of stubble making him look dark and fierce. “It was called 'The Red Spider.” You finally spoke. He turned and looked at you, his eyes questioning. “The reason you came to this club. You said you thought it reminded you of some memory you lost along the way. It was a mission. In 2003. We staked out a club in Moscow called 'The Red Spider.' It had a sign out front, very much the same as that one.” You felt your gaze become softer, looking at him in the night, all dark angles and muscles and angst. “It's why I ended up here, in the beginning, too.”

 

“We were in a green car. A Jetta.” He took another drink, staring across the street at the sign. “You hated that car. Said it was a piece of junk and not classy enough. And the heater didn't work.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You were always cold.” He added, not gruffly, but not soft either, in that smooth voice of his.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you cold now?” He didn't wait for an answer, shrugging out of his leather jacket and draping it around your shoulders. You didn't protest.

 

“Thanks... James.” You tested it out again. It fell from your lips like the words to a song you knew by heart.

 

“You know, I never liked my name when I was young. James.” He had withdrawn his hands from you and from the coat, retreating back to his space a few steps away. “I never thought it fit me; I didn't like it. Until you said it.”

 

“You didn't know what your real name was when I picked it out.”

 

“No. When you called me James the other day, by accident.” He explained. You began to nod, but he continued. “How long, Natasha?” You were silent, mesmerized by the night, and the smell of your Soldier, and thinking of what to tell him. He stepped closer, a hand on your arm. “How long? The two of us? The truth.”

 

You tore your attention from the space in front of the balcony, and brought your eyes to meet his. You hadn't turned on the light to the small patio; his face was cast with shadows. “A year and a half.”

 

He nodded darkly. “I see.” He was quiet for a few moments, his hand still wrapped around your elbow. He dropped it, realizing he had gotten close, and not sure if that was okay.

 

“It started on New Year's Eve.” You told him. “Midnight, 2003.”

 

“It started on the train.” His words were barely audible.

 

“Bucky...”

 

“ _For me, it did._ ”

 

You finished your drink. “It did for me, too.” You finally admitted, matter of factly, as though you were talking about something clinical and far away. “But it really began in room 325 in Volgograd, on New Year's.”

 

“Who were we after? I remember the hit got called off.”

 

“A man named Luke Cage.”

 

“Did we ever get him?”

 

“No.” You shook your head. “He evaded us for a while, and then the orders were terminated.” You pulled his coat around you, slipping your arms into the sleeves, and taking a seat on one of the chairs. He sat in the other. The shadows cut dark lines across his arms and chest, thin thermal Henley tight against his skin. You tore your eyes away from his body; images of him, his flesh on yours, fluttering through your mind. You'd only ever felt like you were at home when you were in his arms, and now that he was here, and he knew, you realized you hadn't felt right in all the years before, or since.

 

“I remember bits and pieces.” He clinked the ice in his cup, draining it. “I remember New Years Eve. Room 325. You let me kiss you. And then... we just never stopped.” A faint smile flickered cross his lips.

 

“No. No, we never did. You looked at me the next morning, flying back to Moscow in that helicopter... and I knew.” You closed your eyes for just a moment, reliving that memory. He'd been across the way, on the other seat, and you'd thought he was napping. He'd opened his eyes and slid them to you, looking you up and down, and a flicker of a spark had shot through his dark features. That had been it for you; you were lost.

 

“I remember other things. I remember waking up with you. I remember fighting and missions and always knowing where you were. I remember a man named Ivan. You didn't like him.”

 

“No, I didn't. He was my handler.”

 

“We were separated for a while. Why?” His eyes were haunting yours.

 

“You took a bullet for me. It caused... problems.” You looked up at the stars. Your hand was still around your glass, set on the small table between your chairs. You felt fingers on yours. You pulled away automatically.

 

“I'm sorry, Natashka.” He whispered, leaning back in his chair.

 

You regarded him for a long while, thoughts flooding your mind. Whatever you had had, you couldn't go back. Could you? Circumstances were different. You were different. He was different. But against all reason, you reached out, pulling his fingers from the arm of his chair where he'd rested them, and lacing yours through his.

 

“No one's called me that since you...” You trailed off. He smiled, very faintly, but it was there. His eyes were faraway. He knew that the two of you were doomed; just as you'd been eleven years ago when they'd come to take him away. “It's been over a decade.”

 

His pupils moved to meet yours, and he spoke, his voice low and dark and serious. “Not for me.” He told you. “It hasn't been eleven years for me.”

 

“I don't know what to do.” You finally admitted.

 

“Why didn't you tell me? When I showed up at the tower? When Steve found me?” His fingers stiffened; his whole body did. “Why did you let me keep going, in the dark? Did you really think that was fair?”

 

You sighed, a pent up breath that felt like it had been in your body since Hydra had taken him all those years ago. “We did a lot of bad things, Bucky. _A lot_ of bad things. And the way it ended... wasn't good. I thought, if you didn't remember, there was no need for both of us to have to carry that weight.” It wasn't a good reason, you realized, but it was your reason. It would have to do.

 

He was silent for a long time now. His fingers loosened up again, holding yours limply. You weren't sure he would forgive you for that injustice, but eventually his thumb moved, skimming over your knuckles, back and forth. You thought about it, you thought really hard, and realized that no, despite being together over a year, you'd never really held hands with this man. It had been sex, and heat, and love in the dark; looks across the battlefield, stolen glances in meeting rooms and across helicopters. Completing assignments and finding one another at safe houses, tearing clothing off like your lives depended on it. Never just sitting, fingers interlaced. There had never been time, between the missions and the hiding. No time to relax.

 

“I get it.” He finally spoke.

 

“You already have so much to deal with.”

 

“So do you, Natasha.” His voice was once again back to normal, deep and with just a hint of the predatory growl you were so familiar with. “How do you handle it?”

 

“I don't.” You whispered. “I ignore it.”

 

You both sat in silence for a long time, staring out into the night, at the neon sign across the street. It began to get cold. “We should get some sleep.” You finally stood up, doing what you knew was right, tearing your fingers from his, leaving them cold and wanting his touch.

 

“Yeah. It's late.” He stood as well, looking hollow. “I'll head back. Do you want a ride? How much whiskey did you have before we got here?”

 

“I'm fine.” You smiled at him, a bit more shy than you usually were. “But it's nearly three am. I'm just going to stay here.”

 

He nodded, retrieving his jacket from you and making his way into the hotel room. He faced you, hesitant. Neither of you knew what you should do. He ran a hand through his hair; the ponytail had fallen out sometime earlier in the night, and it fell in waves to his shoulders. “I'll just... see you tomorrow.”

 

“Bucky, it's late. Really late. Just stay here.” You spoke without thinking.

 

He regarded you uneasily, as though he weren't sure if you were still lying or not. “Okay.” He doffed his jacket, leaving it on the table. “I'll take the floor.” He picked up a pillow, and found a blanket in the closet. When you came back out of the bathroom in your pajamas, he was laying on the ground beside the bed, his boots and pants and belt stacked on a chair. He was stretched out, his head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, wearing his thermal and his boxer briefs. You switched out the light, climbed into bed, and also lay staring up into the dark.

 

You heard him roll over, long minutes later, maybe hours. “Soldier?” You asked into the night. It had been so easy, slipping back into old habits.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This is ridiculous. We've shared a bed before, before everything. You don't need to sleep on the floor.”

 

“I was trying to be chivalrous.”

 

“Were you a chivalrous guy before... before you were the soldier?”

 

“Kind of. I was just doing what I thought Steve would do in this situation.” He admitted. “It's a strange thing to be in the middle of.”

 

You chuckled. “Steve Rogers.” You paused. “Yeah, he would definitely sleep on the floor.” You sat up. “But you aren't Steve. Get up here. There's plenty of room.”

 

You heard him move, the blanket thrown off, and the bed dipped beside you with his weight. “I'll stay on my side.” He told you, pulling the blanket up around him, settling down onto the pillow. “Thanks.” He turned towards you, and you found yourself facing him as well. His eyes were dark hollows in the black room. You heard his easy breathing, and felt the warmth coming off of his skin, just reaching you.

 

“You could never sleep well.” You spoke, finally, breaking the tension.

 

“Only when I was with you.” He replied back, his voice gruff. “I should have known, when I fell asleep in the common room that night... that something wasn't right. Or was too right.” He slipped a hand under his pillow. “You know I was drawn to you, from the first time I saw you here. I just... I felt like I was missing something. But I figured it was because I thought you were pretty.” He stopped, realizing that wasn't quite what he meant. The first time he'd seen you recently, he'd shot you on an overpass while trying to kill Steve. “The first time I saw you at the tower, really. But even back in DC. I didn't know who you were, and you were in my way, but... I knew I had to take you down, and I didn't want to. I didn't know why.”

 

“Is that why you missed?” Your hand grazed over your scar.

 

“Maybe.” His voice hitched. “I know I've told you this before, but I'm sorry. For shooting you.”

 

“I know. It doesn't matter now. Don't beat yourself up.”

 

“Yeah. But I'd prefer you not to suffer, if I can help it.” His words cut through the night like a knife, sharp and deadly. They rang in your ear, a memory, a forgotten weapon that could still strike you down. It was possible, _no probable_ , that he didn't even realize what he'd said, but as he remembered more, if he remembered more, he would know exactly what those words had come to mean. You made a decision then, not for the future, but for tonight. For yourself, and for James, and for all the hopes and dreams you'd never let yourselves have.

 

You reached out, across the bed, gripping his thin shirt in your fist, and pulling yourself towards him. He met your movements, knowing what you were going to do as always, and as your lips met his, he wrapped his arms around your waist, clutching you to him, flush against his body. His heat enveloped you, your fingers caught in the fabric, your tongue dancing with his, your legs tangling together. You tried to pull him nearer, but there was no space between the two of you; it was impossible to get closer. His familiar scent was driving you wild; he reached up, twisting his fingers in your curls, and pulled slightly.

 

“That's my move, Soldier.” You quipped, pulling back from him for one breathless second, before he leaned into you and overtook your mouth again.

 

“Deal with it, Natashka.” He whispered into your neck, hands slipping under your tank top and deft fingers working at your breasts. You slid your hands up his torso, over his muscles and up his arms, pulling the Henley from his body slowly, basking in the warmth of him. You pushed his boxers down, fingers worshiping every inch of him. He grabbed you with strong hands, twisting your bodies and maneuvering you roughly beneath him, the need growing, showing through and igniting the fire between you. You didn't want to think about tomorrow, no, this was a rash decision, but it was one you'd been waiting eleven long years to make, never thinking the chance would ever be yours again. Your Soldier was beside you. _The body knows what the mind does not._

_* * *_

 

“Listen, Natasha. About last night. I know it wasn't a promise. We have a lot to figure out.” Bucky had been ready to depart, keys in hand, as you'd stepped out of the bathroom the next morning, fresh from the shower. His wet hair was pulled back; he'd gotten out of the shower just a few minutes before, dragging his body from yours, leaving you to finish washing your hair and enjoy a few moments of solitude after a night spent making love. Neither of you had slept until the dawn was breaking. The blankets had all ended up on the floor, as had the pillows, and the room was in disarray. It had been an intense night.

 

You nodded in agreement. He was right. You weren't sure what you wanted, and you knew he wasn't sure either. It was a harsh reality that hit you like the cold light of morning; your lives might not be compatible anymore. Your paths may have parted for good eleven years before in Moscow, and they may not be destined to join up again. “I know, James. Bucky.” You walked him to the door. “I'll... I'll see you back at the tower. I'll be right behind you.”

 

He looked down at you for a long time, then bent and kissed your cheek, and left without a word. You felt the loss immediately; you were going to have a lot to think about, and you knew the two of you still had a lot to discuss. The more he remembered, the more you dreaded the conversations you'd inevitably have. _Maybe he'll never really remember how it ended,_ you thought. _Maybe you'd never have to explain your actions._ You were leery, no matter how attracted to him you felt, no matter how much you might need him and never admit it. Leery to get closer, just in case that memory ever surfaced, wary of the destruction it could cause.

 

You dressed, returned the key, and got into your car, taking the familiar route back to the tower. You rounded the corner onto the main road, and your heart sank.

 

Before you was Bucky's car, only it was destroyed. The doors were ripped off, and bullet holes riddled the paneling. Police cars surrounded it. You skidded your sports car to a halt, bolting out, leaving the door open, purse forgotten on the passenger seat. You raced to his car, heart in your throat, but he wasn't in it and there was no blood. You noticed the manhole cover about five feet away, laying beside the dark entrance to the sewers.

 

“Miss, you need to move away from the car.” The police officer approached you, reaching out to grab you and force you back behind the crime scene tape. You glared at him, moving away. _He'd better not touch you._

 

“The man in this car. Where is he?” You steeled yourself, coming across much more calmly than you felt.

 

“He ran.” The officer told you.

 

“Did you see what happened?” You asked him.

 

“Yes. I was in the cafe across the street. Two SUV's flanked the car, and opened fire. As far as I can tell, they hit it with a rocket launcher. The man crashed, and then ran, down into the sewers.”

 

“Did anyone follow him?” You were panicked now, your insides on fire but your exterior stony. You'd just gotten him back, and now he was gone again. You weren't sure if he even had any weapon on him; he probably did, but you couldn't be certain.

 

“Three men, I think.”

 

“Shit.” You took off for the entrance to the sewer.

 

“Wait, miss!” The officer shouted, but you kept running. “Miss! They're bringing the bodies up! The three men who chased him... weren't so lucky.”

 

You heard him, but you weren't taking his word for it. You dropped down the hole in the street, following the tunnel until you got to one, two, and then three bloody spots on the cement. You went further, listening, waiting for anything. “Bucky?” You called. You knew he was long gone by now. “James?” You shouted louder. It was hopeless. You spotted something, farther down the tunnel, on the ground. It was his phone. The screen was cracked, and it was half sunk in water. You picked it up, and made your way up out of the underground. You evaded the police officers, and retreated back to your car. You noticed you had a voice mail; with steady fingers and a trembling heart, you picked up your phone and held it to your ear.

 

“ _Natasha, I don't have a lot of time. I just got ambushed; I killed two of them. I thought it was over, but they found me.” He was breathing hard. “I... oh shit!”_

 

Then the line went dead.

* * *

 

Everyone was in the conference room at Avengers Tower. You'd just finished explaining what had happened that morning, leaving out the events of the night before. You looked around at the faces of your friends, your teammates. They all seemed a bit confused, even Clint, though you knew he would have put two and two together by now. You weren't at a place where you wanted to talk about it, or care what anyone would say. The dull ache that you felt in your chest wasn't alleviated.

 

“I'll go liaise with the NYPD, find out what I can.” Maria stood up, all business, and left the room.

 

Steve nodded, standing as well and taking point. “Sam, Clint, suit up. Us three are going to go search the sewers better.”

 

“I'm going, too.” You stated. Steve looked at you, really seemed to be inspecting you, his eyes making you feel small and uncomfortable. Then he nodded slightly.

 

“Meet up in twenty. I'm sure Buck is gone, but there may be a clue down there.” Steve let out a deep breath. “Tony, Wanda, start looking at traffic cameras. Try to get a license plate.”

 

“Who put you in charge?” Tony frowned. “I thought I was in charge. It's my tower.”

 

“He's my best friend.” Cap retorted, sending a hard look Tony's way, letting him know it was no time to argue.

 

“I'm going to try to get anything I can out of this phone.” Bruce stood as well, taking the plastic bag with the waterlogged cellular phone and examining it. “I may be able to extract some information, but I doubt it will be useful.”

 

You stared blankly at all of your comrades, then ducked out of the room, ready to retrieve your weapons and meet Clint, Sam, and Steve to go search. You were almost to your door when Steve's voice reached you. “Nat. Wait up.” Your heart sank. This was a conversation you knew was coming, and you weren't looking forward to it. You turned, giving your friend a tired stare.

  
“Yeah?”

 

“Nat, where were you and Bucky coming from this morning?” Steve's words were precise and measured.

 

“Listen, Steve, if I'd have been there, I'd have tried to stop them. I didn't arrive until a while after it happened.” You tried to explain, without telling him anything. It didn't work. You knew Steve was an intelligent man, and not easily distracted.

 

“I know, Natasha. I know. But... neither of you were home last night.”

 

“That's not your business, Steve.”

 

“ _I know it's not._ But seeing as my best friend disappeared on the way back, I think you owe me an explanation. It might tell us what happened.”

 

“It won't.” You sighed. Then you met Cap's eyes. “We were down at a club off of Miles Street. Last night.”

 

“You and Bucky went clubbing? I didn't even know you were friends.” Steve looked bewildered.

 

“No.” You shook your head. “I was clubbing. He found me.” Steve's mouth was drawn in a tight line.

 

“Why?”

 

“Listen, Steve, remember when Fury got shot, and I told you that I knew who the Winter Soldier was? That he was a ghost story?” Your words came out fast, blurred together. Steve nodded. “Well, I didn't tell you the whole story, because it wasn't important. But I knew Bucky, before Odessa. Long before Odessa.”

 

“Nat, whatever you're trying to tell me, you need to do it quick.” Steve didn't look amused.

 

You steeled your gaze, meeting his eyes with a defiant look of our own. “I met Bucky in the fall of 2002. We were partnered together, by Hydra and the Black Widow Program. Alexander Pierce was his handler. They wanted me to make him into a spy.”

 

“ _You knew about Alexander Pierce?_ Why didn't you tell me he was with Hydra back when he was Secretary?”

 

“I was wiped too, Steve. But they weren't as thorough with me as they were with Bucky. They just needed to erase Pierce. I didn't recognize him, until I was face to face with him, while you were on the helicarriers fighting... Bucky.”

 

“I see.”

 

“No, Steve, you don't. Bucky found me last night because he started to remember. I wanted to keep it hidden, but he figured out he knows me. He came to find me to.. confront me about it.”

 

A look of realization came over Steve's face, and his features softened slightly. “Natasha, how well did you know him?”

 

You looked back up at your friend, well aware that the world was going to come crashing down for him now as well, just as it had for you, and for Bucky. “Very well.”

 

“You're the girl in his dreams.” Steve said, not even a question. His low voice echoed down the hallway.

 

“I knew him better than anyone, Steve. We were... together. Back in Russia.” Once you finally let it out, you felt better. It had been hard, not telling Cap about Bucky, but like you'd told yourself before, you hadn't wanted that burden for anyone else.

 

“Did you love him?” Steve's next question took you by surprise. It was so direct, so blunt, and so obvious.

 

You gave him a hardened look. “Love wasn't a luxury we were allowed to feel, Steve.”

 

“That doesn't answer the question, Natasha.” Cap stood before you, looking tired, and worn out. These months had been hard on him as well.

 

You sighed. “Yeah. Yeah I did. I loved him a lot.” You finally let the words flow from your mouth, and you were surprised at how good it felt to say them.

 

“All right.” Steve took a step toward you, as though to hug you, but he stepped back when he saw the rough look on your face. “We need to get going. We have a lot to talk about later, though.”

 

“Yeah. We do. But right now, we have to find James.”

 

“James?” Steve raised an eyebrow.

 

“It's a long story.”

 

 

 


	8. Part 8: Demons

_2 May, 2003 Dublin, Ireland_

  
  


James lay back on the bed of the small hotel room. You’d been there for a week; undercover as a pair of smugglers. Technically you had two hotel rooms, but neither of you had been spending much time in the adjacent one. This one was yours, and James had made himself at home in it. Or, as at home as a Hydra assassin really could. His clothing and weapons were through the door, stacked up and set aside and ready to go on his table. But his body was always here in your room.

  
  


It had been a long week, meeting people, getting acquainted with the lower levels of society, and preparing for the job the next night. There was going to be a party at the home of an underworld kingpin in Killiney Hill. He resided in an opulent mansion, his money laundered through a series of business fronts including several dry cleaners, a restaurant, and a travel agency. You needed to take him out at the party through a slow acting poison and leave, so that when he eventually died you would be long gone but it would create a veritable Clue game of potential suspects; meanwhile finding out where the shipment of the rare Earth metals was that Hydra needed most. The realistic way to deposit the poison was through a certain amount of seduction. You had been afraid that would not sit well with James, but much like you he knew it was just a part of your job. You were glad that it wasn’t an issue. It wouldn’t have mattered if it were; you had to do it. Hydra and the Program could never know about your affair with the Soldier. Refusing to flirt with a target would draw suspicion.

  
  


Hobnobbing with the drug dealers and weapons peddlers of Dublin hadn’t been a bright part of your week spent here, however, sharing an hotel room and having alone time with your Soldier was nice. Your covers were solid- behind the scenes dealers who didn’t like the spotlight and weren’t easily recognizable, sent by a bigger fish to negotiate deals. The real “boss” was a Hydra cover that had been being built up for over a decade. The two low grade dealers you were impersonating were both currently dead and on ice back in Russia. The only way this could go wrong was if someone recognized the names and realized you were not those people. You were hoping that wouldn’t happen, but you were fairly sure you and James could shoot your way out of anything.

  
  


He stretched his muscular frame out on the bed, watching you at the brightly lit vanity, rubbing moisturizer onto your skin, your red hair pulled back into a braid. “Natasha, are you almost done?” He asked in the same low, gruff voice as always. The rest of the room was dark, and the light from the vanity cast shadows across his masculine features and chiseled chest. He was shirtless, and probably pant less too, but he was under the sheet so you couldn’t tell.

  
  


“I’m almost done.” You replaced the lid onto the jar of night creme, flipped off the lights, and approached the bed, letting your satin robe fall to the floor, your bare skin exposed to the chill air. You felt his eyes on you in the darkness, watching your every move. You were familiar with them; the way they took you in, his silent appreciation that you truly didn’t think you deserved. He got lost in you, and you in him, no matter what awful things you two made your living doing. He looked at you like you were flawless; maybe you were. In those eyes maybe you could be whatever you wanted to be. He pushed the covers down for you, extending his arm out, ready to pull you to his side. You got into bed and slid close to him; his lips found yours, his arm drawing you in, the cold metal a sharp sting against your skin. But he stopped, still holding you near but no longer affectionate. “What’s wrong, мой воин?” You asked.

  
  


“The hit tomorrow. It’s going to be dangerous.” He replied, not under his breath, but louder, as though it were something important that needed hearing. His words hung in the still darkness.

  
  


“They’re always dangerous, handsome.” You grinned, trying to lighten the mood. You were crazy about this man, and you secretly loved that he worried about you. You weren’t used to anyone really caring that you may not make it out alive. It made your heart beat faster, and it made you want him even more. But at the same time, you didn’t _want_ him worrying. It was a scary and fast paced world you both lived in, and you couldn’t change that. You sat up, throwing a leg over his waist and climbing up on him, sitting with one leg on either side.

  
  


“Yes. I know. But I have a bad feeling about tomorrow.” He ran his rough hands up the outside of your thighs, letting them rest just below your hips.

  
  


“When did you learn superstition?” You bent, placing a chaste kiss on his lips, and returned to a sitting position.

  
  


“I have to listen to what my instinct tells me, and it tells me something is not right.” You could feel his fingertips press into your flesh ever so slightly in apprehension. “We need to be careful, Natashka, more careful than we already are.”

  
  


“I will.” You nodded at him, “I promise.”

  
  


He shook his head in agreement, glad that you were on the same page. He wasn’t huge on talking; mostly watching and listening, whispers or low statements when necessary. Always watching, always listening. You had gotten used to his guarded ways and his intense presence, and you weren’t sure now how you’d managed without it. Without this partner, in all forms of the word, who had your back, always.

  
  


He blinked a few times, his pupils dark and lust blown in the night. You felt him stir beneath you; hands sliding the rest of the way up your thighs, up your torso to rest firmly on your ribs. He flipped you over, lips trailing light kisses and ghosting down your neck, chest, to place a kiss on your tattoo below your breast. “Let’s not think about tomorrow.” He growled, sucking more kisses down your side, leaving marks that, should anyone see, you could easily blame on the target the next evening.

  
  


“We never do, James. _We never do._ ”

* * *

The house was opulent, nearly a castle. Fancy cars dropped people off in equally fancy attire; you knew most of the crowd were crooks, but really, who were you to judge? You and your partner were worse than the smugglers you were pretending to be. The taxi left the two of you on the cobblestone drive before the front steps. James, in a slim black suit, his long hair combed back, got out and opened the car door for you. As he took your hand in his own, the metal camouflaged by the cloaking device, your mind raced back to the conversation just before leaving the hotel.

  
  


“ _I don't know that he's becoming interested, at least not enough, James.” You lamented, putting on your lipstick in the vanity._

“ _How could he not be? He likes women, right?” James was before the giant mirrored closet door, fumbling with his tie. You stood from your perch on the small vanity seat, crossing the room to help him._

“ _Yes. He does. I'm even his type. Or, I'm playing his type.” You slipped the end of the tie through a knot, pulling it tight. All week, you'd been acting a certain way in front of Peter O'Grady's henchmen, and in front of O'Grady himself. You and the Soldier had been at this game the whole time, one that your employers had put you up to to get the kingpin interested; O'Grady liked submissive women, and you'd been doing your best to make it appear that James was in control, even though the two of you in reality had a very level partnership. You hated playing meek, but you'd done worse for missions before. “But he doesn't seem interested and I need to get that poison in his drink somehow. We may need to alter our plan.”_

“ _I've seen men like him before.” James placed a hand on each of your shoulders. “Rich, successful, and they want what someone else has. Always.”_

“ _You need to make him want what you have.” You looked up into his eyes._

“ _I can do that.” A dark look came over his face. “I don't like where it's leading, but I can do that.”_

“ _Are you sure?” You inquired. Though he was getting better, espionage wasn't his strong suit. This was a man with no memories; no experience with jealousy or envy. You weren't even sure if he felt those emotions._

_He inclined his head forward briefly, his voice a low growl in his throat. “Yes.”_

Now he was helping you out of the car in front of the party. You were careful not to step on your floor length black dress, holding it up and off of the ground until you were on the red carpet leading to the house. The Soldier had your hand in the crook of his arm. The man at the door checked the list, let you in, and you were swept up in the warm glow of the festivities. You both knew the whole house was probably bugged, and definitely under surveillance; from here on out, you were Thomas Payne and Jessica Wright, and everything you said had to be in character or spoken in extreme whispers.

“What time does O'Grady want to meet?” James asked, stopping at the bar and retrieving a martini for both of you.

You shrugged. “Whenever he finds us. He's a busy man. But he will.” You toasted, and the Soldier kept you at his side the whole time. _He must figure that if he has me, O'Grady will want me._

You drank, you danced, you passed the time for a few hours pretending to be two people who you weren't. Eventually you ended up sitting across a large table from Peter O'Grady, a few of his bodyguards, and several high level criminals. You noticed O'Grady's eyes darting to you, looking you up and down lasciviously, but still he hadn't made a move to corner you. You leaned towards James to whisper to him. “I'm going to get up and go around the corner. You need to follow me.” He nodded, his eyes dark and ominous and understanding. You stood. “If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back.” You smiled around the table, winked at O'Grady, and shot James a meaningful, come hither look that you knew everyone saw. As you walked out of the room, hips swaying, you heard him stand, excuse himself, and follow you.

Once in the hallway, the Soldier came up behind you quickly. He took your elbow, and steered you to a large bay window. “Where are we going?” You asked him.

“ _I'm about to make him want what I have._ ” The Soldier told you quietly. “ _He's following us_.” He turned to face you, smiling down at you. Then he pushed you against the window beside the floor length curtains, his hands finding your waist and his lips finding your lips. He noticed you hesitate; years of training and a lack of commitment, and months of hiding him from the world caused you just a moments pause. “We have to sell it and our employers know that. Don't worry мой паучок. Trust me.” You let down your guard, drawing him in. You had no idea he could act so well, but you knew it wasn't really acting; this was the only time you could be affectionate in public, when you were playing as other people. He kissed you hard, overtaking you, then his lips found their way to your neck, to the spot where it connected to your shoulder, and he lavished that spot with attention. He was leaving a mark with an almost primal intensity; the only visible mark he could ever make on you that wouldn't lead to questions and memory wipes and isolation. Your eyes rolled back in your head; you were almost lost in the moment. _Almost_. Hearing footsteps beside you, his hands traveled down, grabbing your ass. _Wow, he was really selling this, he wasn't kidding._ You pretended not to notice Peter O'Grady standing beside you. _You knew he was baited now_.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat. You and the Soldier pretended to be taken by surprise, jumping away from each other, he straightening his tie and you smoothing down your hair.

“Mr. O'Grady.” You smiled shyly up at the man. He wasn't bad looking; a tall redhead, mid thirties, in a slick grey suit and shiny black shoes.

“Do call me Peter, Ms. Wright.” He gave you a charming grin, and looked from you to James. “Would you like to see the house operations, Mr. Payne?” He asked the Soldier. “I'd like to borrow Ms. Wright for a few moments to go over the agreement.” James nodded silently, squeezed your hand. Peter snapped at two of his guards. “Show Mr. Payne the house, will you, boys?” And with that, James was off, following them down the hall and out of site around a corner. Peter offered you his arm. “Shall we?”

You took it, letting him lead you through several hallways, to the back of the house. Eventually the party-goers thinned out, the farther you traveled. “This is a spectacular party, Mr. O'Grady, I mean Peter.” You admonished.

“I'm so glad you and your boyfriend could attend.” He replied.

“Oh, Tom isn't a boyfriend. We're just... colleagues.” You stated playfully. God you hated this ruse. “A few too many martini's, you know how it goes.” You giggled, hopefully convincingly.

“Glad to hear it.” He opened a final door, to a large sitting room. There was a massive sofa, an oak desk in the corner, and through double doors, a huge canopy bed. You hoped it didn't get that far. “I'll have champagne brought right up.” He led you to the sofa and you sat, and he sat beside you, closer than you would have liked, but you'd played this game plenty of times before. There wasn't a lot you weren't comfortable with if it got the job done and you got paid.

“Business before pleasure?” He asked, loosening his tie.

You nodded in affirmation. “Yes. Let's get that out of the way.” You crossed one leg over the other, angling your body towards the man. “The shipment, did it come in? Will everything be ready by tomorrow?” James was finding out where the shipment actually was, overpowering the guards and searching the offices; you had been gaining Peter's trust all week to set up a mid level deal for the metals. In reality, Peter was going to die and Hydra was going to take all of it.

“Yes, _my dear_. The shipment was delivered today. I'll have it parceled out and ready for you by eleven o'clock tomorrow. At the docks. Don't worry your pretty little head about that. Leave it to the men.” He grinned. “You have the appropriate funds from your superiors?”

“Yes. It's all ready. James has all of that taken care of.” You assured him. You mentally grimaced. He was trying so hard to keep you in your place. _My dear. Leave it to the men._ He'd been talking down to you all week, belittling your contribution to the deal; all part of the plan, but still annoying. Peter was going to learn the hard way that you don't treat women like objects.

A man came in with a bottle of champagne and two glasses at this point, setting them down. You eyed Peter with a look of faux interest.

“It's all settled. Please tell your employer that I'm glad to do business with him in the future. So long as he sends someone as pretty as you.” He poured the champagne, handing you a flute. You chuckled, acting like you found him charming. You were counting the minutes until his body hit the floor, and not in a sexy way.

He lazily placed a hand on your thigh, leaning back against the sofa cushions. You let him. He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your leg. You braced yourself for the inevitable kiss that was going to follow, but his phone rang. He looked at it, rising. “I'm sorry, I need to take this.” He turned his back and connected the call. Lightning fast, you pulled the small stopper full of poison from your necklace, laced his drink, and replaced it. Now you just had to make sure he drank it, maybe kiss him a few times, and hope James came and got you before Peter decided to get too frisky.

“Hello? Yes. I see.” He turned and glanced at you. “No, she's with me. Yes. Send them down. Take care of it.” He hung up the phone, his eyes never leaving you.

“Is everything all right?” You smiled up at him, reclined suggestively on the couch. You had a feeling something was wrong, though. Cold fingers surrounded your heart.

“No, my dear, it's not.” His face had grown chilly. “I know it's not really Jessica is it? One of my guests recognized the name, but they didn't recognize you. So tell me, who are you really?” He barely glanced at the door as several men piled through, guns trained on you.

Your eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh thank God my cover is blown. I don't have to play the honey trap anymore. Not much seems worse than sleeping with you.” You frowned at the men who had just entered the room. “Only three?”

“They all have guns. You, _my dear_ , do not.” He pointed out haughtily.

You nodded slowly. Then in one quick movement, you grabbed the bottle of champagne from the table, placed your hand on the back of the sofa, and leapt behind it. As you went, you sent the bottle flying, hitting one of the armed guards in the head, knocking him out.

You landed behind the couch, pulling two slim carbon fiber knives from where they had been strapped to your thighs beneath your skirt. You skirted a few feet away, knocking a table down and getting behind it as bullets filled the sofa and then the table. You removed your shoes and you counted. One man was already down; Peter had no doubt grabbed the lost firearm. Once you were sure they'd all fired eight rounds from their pistols, you made your move, giving no one time to reload and hoping they didn't have an extra tucked in a waistband somewhere. You bounded over the destroyed sofa, kicking sideways. You grabbed the first guard around the neck, taking him down as you looped a knee around the second. The first man's head smacked the marble coffee table, knocking him unconscious. The second man you choked out with your legs, hitting a pressure point and he was down for the count. This was too easy.

Peter had slipped out the door by this point; you threw a knife after him and it stuck in the door jam. You took off after him, nearly running into James as he rounded a nearer corner. You both nodded to one another that you were all right, then both continued straight after Peter. He'd ducked around another corner. As you neared it, he came back around, brandishing yet another gun. You were both halfway down a hallway; there was nothing to hide behind, no doors near enough to duck into. James pushed you behind him and raised his weapon, a second too late. His protective movement gave Peter O'Grady just enough time to fire off two rounds. They hit the Soldier, one in his right shoulder; causing him to involuntarily drop his own pistol. The other in the stomach. Peter fired a third. Blood poured from James' chest as he staggered a few steps and fell against a wall, blood pooling on the carpet.

You watched in horror as your lover took the bullets; he seemed to be struggling and trying to shake the wounds off and continue towards Peter O'Grady. _The Soldier was a weapon and thought of himself as such; wounds were not an excuse to fail a mission. Neither was death._ You saw that he'd tucked a second pistol in the back of his belt; reaching and drawing the weapon, you stepped in front of James, aimed at Peter, and fired. Three shots hit him in the chest. You saw him fall, and struggle to get up. You stalked up to him. “That was for shooting my boyfriend.” You stood over him now, and fired the last bullet in the magazine. He stopped moving, a blank look in his now dead eyes. You quickly raced back to James.

He seemed calm, much calmer than he rightfully should be, and for that you were worried. Blood was beginning to trickle out of his mouth and down his bottom lip. _No. They couldn't take him from you. This couldn't happen._ You slipped under his shoulder to help support him, pressing a hand against his chest wound. He held tight to his abdomen. “We need to get out of here.” You could hear commotion down the hall, and quickly began to retreat.

“Just leave me, Natashka.” His eyes were pleading. He didn't care if he died. He just wanted to make sure you didn't. “I can take them down and you can get out.”

“No.” You shook your head. “Come on.”

James rallied, and you managed to make it back to the small lounge where the attack had begun, barricading the door with a large armoire. You hit the emergency code into your phone, and peeked out the window. There was a small driveway out back, and a car was parked there. “James, we're getting out. That's our vehicle.” You turned to him. The fire was going out in his eyes. You needed to restart it. “James!” You grabbed the front of his shirt and pressed your lips to his, rough and wild and hard. “Get me to that car. That's an order.”

Grim determination set in his jaw; he may be losing a lot of blood, and his clear thinking going with it, but one thing that was so ingrained in him he could never forget was an order. He slammed his metal fist through the window, knocking the glass out of the way. He stumbled down; you retrieved your shoes, and the two of you raced across the back lawn. You got him into the car, and hot-wired it, speeding off just as the gunmen started pouring out the window into the night.

* * *

“Natashka, I don't know how much longer I can hold on.” James lay across the backseat of the car. You had fashioned bandages out of the tattered skirt of your formerly long dress, and they were secured around him as tightly as you could make them. A Hydra doctor was on his way, along with a medevac team, to your coordinates. Your flip phone was sending a beacon out into the night. You couldn't take him to a hospital. His metal arm would give it away, and Hydra would abandon him, or worse, if the public knew.

“You can hold on. You're a super soldier.” You were in the backseat too, his head resting in your lap. You smoothed the sweaty hair from his forehead. You closed your eyes tightly. He noticed.

“What's wrong?” His hand, his metal one, slipped up and brushed your cheek. His other arm was useless; the bullet to the shoulder had severed a tendon or a muscle or a nerve, you couldn't be sure.

“Nothing.” You stared down at him. His dark hair, his full mouth, his deep blue eyes that were so in pain, and also something else. Maybe they were in love. You didn't know. “I just... I prefer you not to suffer, if I can help it.” You repeated those words he'd said to you, all those months ago. A small smile played at his lips, and you knew he understood the real meaning behind them. What you would always mean to say, but never could. You loved your Soldier, you thought you probably did. You couldn't remember ever loving anything before. Now he was dying, and you still weren't comfortable saying the words to him.

“Am I your boyfriend, Natasha?” He finally broke the silence, his hand falling down beside the seat, fingers trailing on the ground. He'd lost so much blood, he had no more energy to spare and his thoughts were getting hazy. He'd never ask you this in his right state of mind. Your heart fell, burning in your chest, knowledge that he was going to die and it was all because he'd pushed you to safety. “You shot O'Grady. 'For your boyfriend.' A couple of times.” He seemed amused.

“James.” You whispered, still applying pressure to his chest wound. “That doesn't even begin to cover what you are to me.”

“мой паучок.” His eyes closed and a tear slipped down your cheek.

Outside the car, the whirring sound of a helicopter filled the air, and a spotlight shone down from above.

  
  


_4 May 2003, Moscow, Russia_

“We managed to get the supplies from the drop site.” Ivan stood above you. You were seated in front of his desk on the top floor of the building that housed the Black Widow Program. “The Soldier's information was solid. The mission was messy, but it wasn't a complete failure.”

All you did was nod. You didn't care about the metals Hydra was after. You cared about the man you'd watched get shot. “And the Soldier? What is his status?” You eyed Ivan coolly. The medevac team had picked you both up, and the doctor had began working on James before the helicopter was even off of the ground. It had taken you both to some base in Ireland, where he had been whisked away to an operating room, and you'd been ordered on a plane back to Russia. You had no idea what had happened to your Soldier after that.

“The Soldier is out of surgery. He's awake but hasn't said anything.” Ivan sat down in his chair, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. You thanked any God that could hear you that James hadn't gotten chatty on the morphine. “Which leads me to the next question. I read your notes. He took three bullets. For you.” He gave you a long, soulless stare.

“Yes, sir. We were ambushed in a hallway. He pushed me out of the way.” You nodded slowly. Could they really think that trying to protect your partner was suspect?

“Why?” He continued to stare.

“Because I didn't have a gun, sir. The Soldier did.” You gazed back, unflinching. “I didn't stand a chance. There was no cover.”

“Our best asset chose to endanger his life. For you. Why would he do that?”

“Because he's my partner, Ivan. When you assign two people to work together, it's in their best interest to not let the other one get killed. Especially if the other one has no gun or cover.” You knew you appeared annoyed, and you were. It was one thing to keep your relationship with James from Ivan and from Hydra. It was another to have to defend any camaraderie in the first place.

He looked at you uncertainly, but nodded. “All right.”

“Will the Soldier be returning to duty with us, sir?” You finally asked, making sure your tone was low and devoid of emotion. You dreaded the answer.

“Yes, he will. If he makes it through. He's far too valuable to let go.” Ivan closed the file before him. “You two make a great team. Alexander is confident that he'll be back on his feet in no time. Hydra has the best scientists and surgeons, and they're prepared to wipe him again to make sure he's not traumatized from this event. He'll come back to us 100%.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” You shook your head. “If the Soldier comes back to work with me, I don't want him wiped.” You searched your mind for a reasonable excuse that Ivan would buy. James couldn't be wiped; you'd lose him forever while he was still beside you. You couldn't live with that. “We've trained for months now, we know each others every move. We're a good team through hard work and sacrifice. And money. Lot's of money.” You glared at Ivan, and threw out your last possible move. “It took months to get him where he is now, and I won't work with him again if he's wiped and all that progress is gone. He'll have to get over the trauma, or he's out. He's a weapon, and weapons get damaged.” You hoped you sounded as cold as you thought you sounded.

Ivan took that in. He inclined his head forward. “Noted. I'll pass that on to Pierce.”

You stood and left Ivan's office. Your chest was cramping around your heart, but at least you knew that James wasn't dead. Your brutality may have saved him his mind.

* * *

 


	9. Part 9: Manhunt

 

 

 

_Present day_

 

You, Sam, Steve, and Clint had  found nothing in the sewers, and you’d known that you wouldn’t. You’d searched all afternoon, and Maria had formed a liaison with the NYPD for access to forensics from Bucky’s car and the dead attackers, and the eyewitness reports. The people who had seen the attack all reported that Bucky’s car had been flanked by two black SUV’s. He’d been hit with an RPG, and steered into a center divide, his car fired upon by men with rifles and machine guns the whole way. Tony had insisted on making everyone’s cars bulletproof a few months ago; and while it wouldn’t hold rounds out forever, and definitely would still be damaged by a rocket propelled grenade, this detail had spared the Soldier a few moments to pull his pistol from the locked glove box, dive out the back passenger door, and through a manhole that was already open due to maintenance a few steps away.

 

Three men in black had followed him, the two SUV’s pulling away and disappearing. Three men in black had been pulled from the sewers, all dead. So far no identities had been confirmed, or even suggested. Their fingerprints matched no one in any system. Maria was running them through the old SHIELD database now, but such things took time. Bruce was trying his best with Bucky’s phone, but Bucky was a secretive man. He’d erased messages as fast as he’d gotten them, and Bruce had informed you all that he had no photographs in the device either. Only a smattering of phone number, belonging to the Avengers, his therapist at the tower, and a few restaurants where he liked to order takeout. Nothing could be found to indicate anything about what had happened that morning.

 

Steve had told everyone a basic story about how you and Bucky had been out clubbing all night and hanging out. He hadn’t told them any details, and had avoided any hint of romance. You’d fill them in later but for now you weren’t keen on airing your past, or that of the Soldier, to a bunch of people who knew you’d been bad in your past life, but didn’t know how bad. You also had no idea where, if anywhere, your bond with the Soldier was going to lead, and you’d prefer to keep it close to your vest for now. For this discretion, you were thankful. Steve wasn’t wont to lie, but he could rearrange the truth if it was absolutely needed. And right now, it was.

 

It was near two am now. You sat in the living room of Bucky’s apartment at the tower, Steve on the lounge chair, you on the couch, your legs stretched across the cushions. You were staring off into space; the room fuzzy in your view, all beige carpet and dark wood and leather, soothing colors placed there on purpose to ease Bucky’s troubled mind. Your shoes were on the floor beside you, ready to go should you hear anything. A laptop sat on your legs, forgotten. All of your searches had been exhausted.

 

“There’s got to be something that we missed. Bucky’s been safe for nearly two months. Nothing has hit the radar here, no threats, nothing suspicious. What happened this week that changed?” Steve was gazing out the window, over the skyline of New York.

 

“I’ve been trying to think, and I…” You stopped and jumped as your cellphone beeped, indicating a new message. You swooped your fingers down to retrieve it from it’s place on the floor next to your high tops. It was probably Bruce or Maria, and hopefully they had information. You peered at the screen. The number wasn’t familiar to you, but your heart raced as you noticed that the first three digits were 325. _James._

 

You looked at Steve, and noted the stress that was taking it’s toll on his light features. His face was all angles, the faint crows feet at the corners of his eyes a little deeper today. The life of a hero was the only one he was suited for, the only one he’d ever _been_ suited for, but that didn’t make it easy for him. “ _It’s him_.” You stated.

 

“How do you know?” He came to sit beside you, noting the unfamiliar number on the phone.

 

You clicked open the message, ignoring Steve. You hoped against hope your Soldier would tell you where to find him, but you knew there was no way he would in such a brash manner; he was nothing if not paranoid to a certain extent, and rightfully so.

“ _I stepped out for a while, went to stay at my timeshare on the water. It’s been nice, tea in the mornings and reading in the evenings. Wish you were here. I’ll see you on May 27 th.”_

 

The words that popped up on the screen were disheartening, at first, but your mind raced and put the pieces together. You looked up at Steve. “I know where to look.” You began pulling on your shoes, like what you’d just said, and what had just happened, made perfect sense. To you it did. To a spy and an assassin, these were breadcrumbs. This was the last resort.

 

“How… what did that even mean? Are you sure that was even him? He doesn’t ever talk like that.” Steve stopped you, a hand on your arm, your hackles rising at the touch and then settling back down because it was just Cap. It had been hard to get used to having friends, to people who freely hugged or touched without a second thought. To you, touching meant fighting or death. It had taken a long time to erase that.  

 

“The number. It starts with 325. That’s… a symbolic number. For me. For him.” You laced up your shoes, not looking at your friend. “He’s in Boston. He’ll leave a message in a library book for us. Specifically in “War and Peace.” More specifically, in the original Russian version of War and Peace. On page 527.”

 

“You got all that from a text message about vacation and tea?” Steve frowned. “I can put together Boston from the water and the tea, and maybe the library from the books reference but… this is old code for you, isn’t it?”

 

You nodded. “Yes. I’m surprised he remembers. We decided a long time ago that if one of us ran into trouble we’d leave a message in a copy of ВОЙНА И МИР (Voina ee Mir) in the library. The specific library back then was a small one in Kiev. I’m assuming he’s not in Kiev; it’s in a library in Boston.” There was a lot more to this strategy than that, but the first step was to locate this book. You noticed that Steve looked a little bit hurt, his eyes downcast and his shoulders slightly slumped. “What’s wrong, Steve?”

 

“Nothing. I just… it seems trivial, but I’m wondering why he didn’t contact me. Or come here. I mean, does he not trust me?” Steve’s demeanor was that of a man deflated and unsure of himself. You could see why. He’d spent months locating Bucky, months helping him, and as soon as he was in danger, he’d reached out to a former Soviet spy that Steve hadn’t even realized he had a connection to. Instead of his oldest friend.  

 

“Of course he trusts you. If he hadn’t remembered our plan, I’m sure you’d have been the first person he’d reach out to.” You felt for your friend, but there were more important matters at hand than hurt feelings, and both you and Captain America knew that. “He didn’t come back because… Listen, there’s a lot more that happened to him than you know, or than even I know. Or that he knows. He’s not going to trust a giant organization like this right away. And he’s not going to endanger his friends either. He remembers this plan, and in his mind it’s solid. And it’s safe.”

 

You returned to your phone, opening a new message to respond. “I’ll be there. See you then. Glad you’re having a lovely time.” You hit send, but a moment later you received a message that the phone was out of service. You looked up at Steve. “He’s ditched the phone.”

 

Steve nodded, standing from the couch and reaching out a hand to pull you up. Things were so easy with Steve. “Of course he did.” He smiled just a little. “Let’s go round up the others. I’m assuming there’s a lot of libraries in Boston, and we want to check them all quickly.”

 

* * *

Six. Of course there were more libraries, what with Boston being home to MIT and a few junior colleges, but you were interested in the first six that looked promising. There were five public libraries in Boston, and one at Boston University that had an extensive Russian language section. That was the one you had a feeling about. So you and Clint were now seated in his low black car, on your way to the city by the harbor. Steve and Sam were behind you in Steve’s truck, and Wanda and Bruce were in the car behind them. You’d all stay in pairs but split up to check the libraries faster. You knew it was going to be at the BU location, though.

 

It was nearly an hour into your four hour drive when Clint finally spoke. “So you want to tell me what happened?”

 

You sighed, watching the lights from passing cars glide across the shiny outside of the car, across your face, across Clint’s face. “Not really.”

 

“Nat… you can’t keep everything to yourself.”

 

“I’ve been successful so far.”

 

Clint met your remark with silence of his own. It continued for a few minutes, until finally the tension grew so thick, you broke it. “He remembered. Or he’s starting to. He found me at this.. this club I sometimes go to.”

 

“How did he know you were there? I didn’t even know you went to a club. What club?” Clint kept his eyes on the road, clicking up his hearing aid.

 

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” You replied. “He found me there about a week or so ago. It reminds both of us of this industrial club in Russia, only of course he didn’t know why he was drawn to it at first. He showed up there, and I wasn’t happy about it.”

 

“That was the night he slept in the common room. I noticed he was dressed kind of nice for just hanging out at the tower.”

 

“Yeah, that was the night. I went home with Ryan but… I said James’ name in bed instead of Ryan’s.” You told him. You saw a grimace flash over Clint’s easy features.

 

“ _That’s never good._ ”

 

“No, it’s not.” You shook your head. “It was never a thing with Ryan anyway.” You paused. “Bucky went home with some blonde woman named Kim, but he left after they…” You trailed off. You’d just thought of something. “Wait a minute.”

 

“What?” Clint peered at you with concern. You weren’t sure if it was because you were telling him that your former super assassin lover had taken another woman to bed a few days ago and he thought you couldn’t handle it, thought you’d just figured it out; or if he could tell the wheels in your head were turning. Probably the latter. Clint know you well enough to know that while you weren’t thrilled about the hook up, you didn’t have any ground to stand on yourself.

 

“She saw his arm.” You looked seriously over at your best friend. “If they were naked, and I’m assuming they were, because who has sex fully clothed with gloves on… she saw his arm. The camouflage has been damaged since DC. Tony could never figure it out enough to fix it. So Kim must have told someone.”

 

“If she isn’t Hydra herself.” Clint supplied.

 

“That would be incredibly coincidental, but maybe. And who knows how quickly the story of a man with a metal arm could fly across New York City.” You pulled out your phone. “Maria. I have a lead. It’s a little vague. Bucky was with a woman named Kim last week. Intimately with. They met at a club called “The Spiders Web” in the industrial district. See if you can get a line on her. If not, we’ll have to go find her ourselves. Okay, thanks.” You clicked the phone off. “It’s a long shot. But I’m willing to wager that someone she told knew that information was worth something.”

 

Clint shook his head. “That man won’t be safe anywhere.”

 

You were silent. It seemed like no matter where you or James went, you weren’t destined for peace. You weren’t sure you’d even know what to do with it if you found it.

 

* * *

At nine o'clock, the library at the University opened. You’d wanted to just break in and steal the book, and Clint had been a willing accomplice as always, but Steve had insisted that everyone wait until the libraries opened, at the meeting before departure.

 

“Let’s just break in and be done with it.” You sighed. You’d broken into the Pentagon once back in the early 2000’s, before you’d defected. You could get in and out of a library without incident.

 

“No.” Steve shook his head, looking around the room at everyone. “Wait until they open and go in like a customer.”

 

“Bucky is out there waiting for us to find him.” You were growing impatient.

 

“Yes, he is, but if any issues arise breaking into these places, we could raise suspicion. Hydra is everywhere; if they’re looking for him, and they find out anything about cold war spy strategies being used in libraries in Boston, they’ll be onto us.”

 

“I won’t get caught. This is plebeian.”

 

“Natasha.” Steve’s voice was a warning, a tone he seldom used but you knew he meant it when he did.

 

“Fine. We wait until opening.” You stood up. “No discussing this via cell phone or text. You all have the appropriate codes, remember, nothing over the airwaves.” You glanced at Tony. You knew his network was fine, but you could never be too careful. He nodded

 

“I’m not arguing. I’m 99.9% sure my lines are secure but until we find out how they tracked the Tin Man, we go dark.” Tony agreed, a concerned look on his features. Stark Industries was his life achievement. He was furiously searching for a security breach. You knew he wouldn’t find one, but caution was necessary anyways.

 

Now you approached the large building housing the library, up the steps with Clint by your side. You entered through the glass doors, and made a beeline for the Russian Language section. Everything here was unreadable to Clint, he didn’t speak this particular language; nevertheless he followed, his eyes keen and his reflexes on edge. You were all pretty sure you were safe, but you weren’t certain.

 

The library was nearly deserted this time of morning. You bypassed the computers and their library book searches. You didn’t want any trace of what you’d been here for. “Of course, there’s no card catalog.” You muttered under your breath. Clint didn’t hear. You stalked the shelves, scanning, and finally found the tome. A huge book, over 1200 pages. You slid it from the shelf. Tucked into the back was a sheet of paper with small holes cut into it, each large enough to show one letter only. A window box. Simple spy game. You flipped the book to page 527, overlapped the window box onto it, and read the hidden message. It was short.

 

“What’s it say?” Clint whispered to you.

 

“It says-” You were interrupted by a tall man rounding the corner. You quickly reached up, smoothing a piece of Clint’s hair behind his ear and trailing it down to his collar in a manner that conveyed intimacy. Reading your tell, Clint brought a hand up to rest on your hip and chuckled at something you hadn’t said. The stranger cleared his throat, turned around, and left. You glanced at him as he retreated, turned back, and winked at your friend. “Works every time.”

 

“You really know how to make people uncomfortable.” Clint smirked as you stepped away.

 

“People really avoid PDA. That guy left so quickly, he probably wouldn’t be able to even describe us.” You closed the book, shelved it, and shoved the window box into your pocket. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you in the car.” You exited the library, avoiding the student who had stumbled upon you, hoping that the feigned affection between yourself and Clint would be enough for him to never connect the incident if he were asked about it.

 

You slid into the car, Clint started it, and you texted your allies the agreed upon message indicating success. “I found a spot for the party. I’ll tell you all the details later!” You clicked into your phone, sending it. You knew they’d still check their respective libraries, though you were fairly sure Bucky would have only left a message in one. You received several messages of affirmation back.

 

“So what did it say?” Clint asked, pulling out of the lot.

 

“Translated, it said to meet him tomorrow night, nine pm, at 427 Elm Street, Apartment C, in Union City New Jersey. Come alone.” You let yourself breathe a sigh of relief. “So we can head back.”

 

“He’s sticking close to New York City. That’s only 15 minutes out.” Clint left the campus, pulling onto the thoroughfare. “He told you exactly where he’d meet you in that book? That seems… ballsy. What if his message had been intercepted and decoded. Or we’d been followed?”

 

You smiled. “No, the plans we had in place weren’t that simple. We aren’t meeting him at that apartment.” You rested your head against the window, feet up on the glove box. Clint had long since stopped trying to get you to keep your feet off of his dashboard. “We’re meeting him at the closest park to that address. To the west. At ten pm.”

 

Clint whistled. “You guys thought of everything.”

 

“It’s always ‘at the closest park to the west, an hour later.’ It was necessary. We didn’t know when one of our respective employers would find us no longer useful.” You felt your heart sink. If you’d only decided to leave, so many years ago, maybe the last ten years of your lives would have been different. You stopped that line of thinking; there had been no way then that the Program or Hydra would have ever let either of you go. They’d have found you, sooner or later, and killed you. As was obvious by their hunt for James even now. You turned to Clint, a smile masking your inner monologue. “I’ll let everyone know to head back.”

* * *

 

_15 July, 2003. Moscow, Russia_

 

The doors to the training room opened and the soldier stepped in. You turned from your view out the window, riding the treadmill to the end and stepping off. You nodded to him. “Soldier.”

 

“Natasha.” He nodded back, standing sternly in front of the bench by the door.

 

“Welcome back.” You took him in, eyes moving up and down his form. Your heart was pounding in your chest. You’d wondered this whole time if they’d wipe him, if they’d send him back, if you’d ever see him again. Now the wait was over, the question was answered, and you could let yourself relax as much as you ever really did. He knew you.

 

He looked absolutely fine; there was no outward signed of the injuries he had suffered over two months ago. His back was straight, his right arm appeared to work fine. He didn’t even seem to have lost muscle mass.

 

“Ivan sent me in to get you. We have a new mission.” His eyes flickered over you, giving nothing away. “I was just delivered.”

 

You nodded. “How’s your arm? Back up to par, I assume?”

 

He reached out, opening and closing his hand. “Yes. It’s fine now. They fixed me.”

 

“Your recovery was fast.” You began walking towards the locker room.

 

“I heal quickly. Very quickly.” He answered in that low, gruff way of his. It sent shivers up your spine.

 

You turned to him. “I’ll be out in a second. I’ll meet you in Ivan’s office. Are you ready to be back in the field, Soldier?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.” You looked him up and down again, then turned on your heel and disappeared through the doors. On the other side, out of view of anybody else, you let out a deep breath; a sigh of relief. The wait for your Soldier, and your fate, was over. 

* * *

 

_16 July, 2003_

 

“I thought they might not send you back.” You sat outside of the nightclub, The Red Spider, the next night, beside your Soldier. The ancient green Jetta you were in was a terrible car, but it didn’t stick out in the sea of lower end automobiles parked at the back of the lot. You grimaced. The heater didn’t work and it was chilly at midnight, even in July.

 

“I wasn’t sure they would. I was in and out of consciousness for a while. I think they had me on a lot of drugs. I _know_ they had me on a lot of drugs.” He sat in the passenger seat, nearly filling it. His hair was pulled back, and he wore a black tee shirt and black jeans, his arm camouflaged to look flesh. You wore a slinky red top and tight black pants; in case anyone spotted you, you both looked like a couple who had escaped the club to get some alone time in the parking lot. He looked strange to you in civilian clothes; he always did. He looked handsome, but you were more used to his tactical gear and blacked out eyes and his mask. You preferred it. “I heard one of the doctors say that it was requested I not be mind wiped.”

 

“I requested it.”

 

“They said you would refuse to work with me if they wiped me; that too much time and money had been wasted already.” He continued, his gaze on the cars and people coming and going from the nightclub. This was your second night here on the stakeout, and so far the mob boss hadn’t shown.

 

“James, I did tell them that.” You put a hand on his arm, imploring him to face you. “I told them exactly that. I made it seem like it was about money and time and an undue burden. It was the only way I could come up with to make sure they didn’t erase you. Erase me. Erase us.” He looked into your eyes, and you could tell he understood, that he’d known all along. You felt better instantly; he hadn’t thought you’d betrayed him all these months.

 

“I know.” He gave you a small smile. “I knew you’d come up with something.”

 

“James, of course I would. This… this thing we do. We have. _I need this._ ” You looked at your knees, then back at him. “I don’t know why. But I’ll protect it as long as I can. And with everything I have.”

 

“мой паучок.” He smiled into the night, a small smile, understated like everything he did. “ _I will, too._ ”

 

_Continued in Chapter 10: War and Peace_


	10. War and Peace

_29 February 2004, Moscow, Russia._

_Leap Day._

 

You were tired. So, so tired. You and the Soldier had been up for three days trying to catch up to a masked mercenary. He had information the government was hoping to buy from him, but he hadn't been keen on sharing it, and had evaded your best attempts. Now, beyond exhaustion, you'd driven back to Moscow to be given another case. You'd parked the car you'd been given for the job in the lot behind the tall, sleek black building that housed the program, and made your way across the icy parking lot, in the hail and the sleet, to the back steps. Ivan wasn't going to be happy that you hadn't caught your man and were unable to negotiate; however, it was common knowledge that no one had ever caught him.

 

“You seem like you feel fine. Are you not sleepy?” You turned to the man on your right, inquiring gruffly about his present state, which seemed to be a lot more put together than yours was. Your body felt heavy, and entirely too hot. He just shrugged.

 

“I am.” Was his only reply. You knew, you had known for a while, that Hydra had experimented on him. They had to have done something. He was beyond human, everything about him told you that. You were trained, you were in peak physical condition, and you suspected you were enhanced to some degree as well, though you'd resigned yourself to never knowing a long time ago. But nothing about the Soldier was possible, from his mechanical arm, to surviving the gunshot wounds he'd weathered just nine months before, to now, being able to function in a normal manner after three days with no rest.

 

“I'm exhausted. Ivan says they're sending us out-” your statement stopped as you took a step up towards the building, your foot slipping on the icy stairs. Quick as lightning, James reached out, hand to the small of your back, keeping you from slipping all the way to the ground and pushing you smoothly back to a standing position. It was so fluid, no one would have known the wiser unless they were absolutely watching you. You had inadvertently reached out and back, and grabbed his shoulder as you fell. Now you moved your hand quickly, ever aware of where you were and the people who may be watching. Your fingers barely touched his as you separated, his fingertips bending and following yours ever so slightly. You knew it was reflex to keep reaching for you, and it surprised you that even now, every time you touched, electricity flowed between the two of you and your heartbeat, and his, quickened. You stopped and looked at him. “Thanks.” You were embarrassed. You'd never lose your balance on a normal day, but you'd had no rest, and it was catching up to you.

 

“Of course.” He nodded, stepping away, and leading the way into the building.

 

Neither of you saw the flutter of the blinds from an office window high above.

* * *

 

“You'll be headed to Germany this evening. You can rest for a few hours before departure. Then you'll be taken by helicopter to the designated drop point. You'll receive orders before takeoff. It's a quick hit. You should be done by morning.” Federov sat at his desk, a cup of coffee in front of him. Federov looked tired; he always looked tired lately, dark circles around his eyes, his mop of floppy brown hair not quite as shiny as it used to be. He looked too thin, too, his already slender body looking too small for his clothes. You wondered what was going on with him, though you hesitated to ask.

 

You nodded. Getting to sleep, even if it was just on a cot here at the office, was a welcome endeavor. Federov stood. “Would you like some tea, or coffee, Romanova?”

 

“Tea please. Thank you Federov.”

 

“You, Soldier?” The young man's eyes trailed over to James, but didn't make contact. He was afraid of James. Everyone was afraid of the Winter Soldier.

 

“No.” The one word reply seemed to put Federov even more on edge. He turned to make your tea, back stiff as though he hesitated to turn it to the looming figure, and deposited it on the desk before you.

 

“That's all, Soldier. We'll meet back here at 1900 hours. There are staff waiting to escort you back to base to... do whatever they do to you there.” Federov seemed nervous in his presence. He always had, from the first day the Soldier had arrived. It made sense. The Soldier was a menacing figure to everyone but yourself, and what Federov displayed in diplomacy and intelligence, the Soldier had in brawn and lethal discipline. The Soldier stood, nodded, his eyes flickering over you with feigned disinterest,  and retreated from the room. Once the door closed, Federov sat. He eyed you, drinking your tea.

 

“Is something wrong, Federov?” You finally asked, unable to handle the silent stares any longer.

 

“You don't seem intimidated by the Soldier, Romanova.” He pointed out.

 

“No. I'm not.” You took another sip, regarding Federov coolly. “I've been partnered with him for a year and a half. There's nothing for me to be afraid of, not when it comes to him.”

 

“He's dangerous.”

 

“Oh, yes. He is dangerous. Very dangerous.” You agreed.

 

“Have you... have you become friends with him?” Federov was still studying you. You were thankful that he'd taken on the job of intermediary between you and Ivan; you disliked Ivan and hated dealing with him. But Federov had an air about him that you couldn't pinpoint. As harsh as Ivan was, he was confident in himself. Federov was not. You knew his father was powerful in the government and that's how Federov had ended up here, but he had changed his name and you weren't sure exactly who his father was. Outwardly he tried to seem self assured, but there was an undercurrent that told you he didn't feel safe, probably not anywhere, but definitely not here. Not with you, and not with the Soldier.

 

You paused. You weren't sure if Federov was fishing, if he suspected that you and James had grown too close. “No.” You finally answered, and that part was the truth. You weren't friends with him, and you never had been. You'd been partners, comrades, and then lovers, and now you weren't sure what you were but it wasn't done justice by a label. But you'd never been just friends. Of course you wouldn't tell Federov any of this, nobody besides you and James knew any of this. “No, we aren't friends.”

 

“You know him pretty well, though.” Federov pointed out. “Everyone else is afraid of him. Not sure what he might do at any moment. I hear he gets violent at Hydra HQ pretty often.”

 

You shrugged, acting nonchalant. “I suppose I know him as well as anyone can know someone like that. Something like that.” You inwardly winced at your choice of words, reducing the Soldier from a man to an object, a weapon that Hydra and the Black Widow Program, and you, wielded when it was convenient. But his welfare, and your own, depended on it. You finished your tea. “But he's never let me down. It's his job not to.” You stood. “But I'd say your assessment is correct. Everyone should be afraid of him.”

* * *

 

“I think we should leave, James.” You whispered to him. It was later that same evening, nearly midnight, and you were perched on top of a rooftop in Berlin. James had his eye pressed to the scope of a sniper rifle, and you had both of yours firmly staring through binoculars. You'd gone into the hotel across the street hours before, to take out this Mr. Carlisle in his room. He hadn't been there. You were resorting to Plan B now, which was a bullet. Plan A would have been cleaner, but Mr. Carlisle had decided to go out on the town this evening.

 

“Where would we go?” He asked, not taking his eyes off of the dark hotel room.

 

“I don't know.” You admitted. “It doesn't seem like we'd be able to hide for long.”

 

“Hydra would find me.” He spoke in a low voice. “No matter where I go. I can help you escape if you need me to.”

 

You sighed, your chest feeling heavy. “No. This life is fine with me. I can leave it if I want to, but I like what I do. I'm good at it.” You weren't sure how to explain the way you felt to a man who was used to being owned by his superiors even more so than you were. You could at least quit. Sure, you'd probably “accidentally” die soon after, but it was an option. He couldn't. You were sure he didn't understand. “And I won't leave you.”

 

James was silent for a long time, seemingly intent on his target. He finally broke the silence. “I want more than this, Natasha. I want to not have to hide. I want to know what it's like to go home to a real place of my own after a mission. I want to do right by you, even though I don't really know what that even means.” He spoke the words like he was speaking them as much to the quiet city night as to you. “But they have me and they won't let me go. They'll kill me, and they'll kill you, if we run. Or worse.” He lowered the nozzle of the gun a fraction of an inch. “I can't have that. I chose you.”

 

“I'm the only person you know.” You pointed out. It had crossed your mind more than once that he was infatuated with you because you were all that was available to him, but you didn't want to be insulting and had never brought it up.

 

“And I'm the only person you know who won't ever push to be anything more to you.” He countered. Your heart grew cold. _He'd been worried this whole time that you were with him out of sheer convenience as well._

 

You didn't want to break his concentration. You slid your hand over to him across the gravelly rooftop, your gloved fingers coming to rest just touching his elbow. His body seemed to relax a tiny bit at the small motion. You could always soothe him. “That's not true. _You're everything to me_.”

 

“Then trust me. I'm not a caged animal, Natashka. I'm a man, and you were my choice. You're my only choice.” Your heart swelled, but you had no time to enjoy it. He tensed back up. “There's movement in the room. Is that him?”

 

You saw the hotel light come on through your binoculars, and a short, middle aged man entered the room. He had a female with him, tall and blonde, in extremely high heels. “Affirmative. That's him. Don't shoot the hooker.”

 

“I'd never shoot a hooker.” James squeezed the trigger, a shot rang out in the night. You wondered how he knew what a hooker was; some of his past must be emerging through the fog of his memories. You heard the window glass shatter, saw the man fall, and heard the woman scream. James dismantled the weapon partially with expert fingers, shoved it into a case, grabbed your hand, and the two of you disappeared into the night.

* * *

 

_Present day_

 

It was ten pm, and you were in the park, slinking through the shadows. You knew where he would be; at the northernmost area of the park. That was what you'd agreed on all those long years ago, in a plan you'd never had to use. Not until now. You were alone, for the most part. You had a comm in your ear. Tony had finished checking his network security, and there had been no breaches. Nonetheless, he'd gotten everyone new phones and put you all on a network that was off the books, including your comms. Cap, Sam, and Wanda were securing the park a few blocks out. Clint was on a building across the street, bow at the ready, updating you on the things he could view from his vantage point.

 

You crept through the dark, ever aware of your surroundings. Your mind, as always, was half on the present task, and half lost in thought. It traveled back to the Tower, earlier today, before you'd left. Bruce had approached you in the hallway.

 

“ _Nat, can I talk to you?” He asked, more shy than even he usually was. You'd had a brief flirtation with Bruce, more of a fleeting idea of a romance, really, a while ago. Since then you'd settled back into a comfortable camaraderie. You'd liked the doctor for his intelligence and his discipline, but when it came down to it, neither one of you was the right fit for the other._

 

“ _Yeah.” You turned towards him, waiting for him to catch up._

 

“ _Hey, I... I don't know if this means anything, and I didn't want to tell the others, but Bucky did have one photo saved in his phone. A file, actually.” Bruce began, trailing off and then starting up again. “He downloaded it from the mainframe two days before he went missing.”_

 

_You nodded. You wondered what it could be? Hydra reports? Something that would give you an idea as to who was following him? No... Bruce would have known something like that was important and informed the team. “What was it?”_

 

_Bruce looked uncomfortable, like he was worried that whatever he was about to say would upset you. “It was your file. It's not very in depth; you need clearance to get your whole dossier and Barnes doesn't have that yet. But you were the only thing on his phone.” He finished his sentence with an awkward silence._

 

_You felt like you'd been stabbed in the heart. Bucky had started remembering you, and he'd looked you up. Much like you'd done with his file, when he'd come into all of your lives. “Thank you, Bruce.” You turned to leave._

 

“ _Natasha.” Bruce called from behind you. You turned back around. “Listen, Nat. I know there's a lot about you that even I don't know. But... Whatever he is to you... I hope you find him. We find him. He'll be safe.” He left it at that, and retreated down the hallway. You watched him go, lost in thought over this new development. Whatever happened between you and your Soldier, you had to find him. You had to save him._

 

Bruce knew you well enough that he had figured out the big picture, if not the details. It wasn't a stretch that you and Bucky would have crossed paths back in Soviet Russia, and frankly you were surprised no one had thought of it until now. Other than your unfortunate meeting in Odessa, nobody had ever inquired if you'd maybe known the Soldier before then. Maybe they had thought of it, and they knew asking you would be fruitless.

 

You came around a copse of trees, and saw a shape move quickly in the darkness. You hoped it was Bucky, because if it wasn't you were about to be out in the open with no cover. You stepped out of the shadows, hands up in the air to show you were unarmed. In reality, you had several weapons strapped to yourself underneath your disguise of jeans, sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt. Bucky would know that. No one else would.

 

Your heart pounded for a few moments, until you heard his voice. “It's me, Natasha. Were you followed?” You stepped towards the sound, near a small stone bridge spanning over a gravel walkway. It was cloaked in darkness. An arm reached out and pulled you into the shadows. You found yourself pressed up against the Soldier, his arms around you. You felt them travel up your body, checking that you had several guns strapped to you, and unbuckling one of your holsters and removing the pistol at the small of your back. His hand rested there, however, his breath on your ear. You could feel how tense his body was in the confined space. You knew he was scanning the park.

 

“I wasn't followed, not that I know of.” You pressed your hand to your ear. “Clint, update on status.”

 

“You appear to be alone, still. Two people around the corner who seem to be asleep on park benches; I'd avoid them just in case.” Clint's words echoed back to you. “Or I can shoot them. I'd feel bad if they turn out to be civilians, though.”

 

“That won't necessary.” You smirked to yourself at Clint's zeal to take someone out with his new long-range bow.

 

“I asked you to come alone.” James, Bucky, spoke gruffly into your ear. He was even more tense than before. “I trust you, and I trust Steve, but-”

 

“I'm better than alone.” You whispered back, cutting him off. At some point, his paranoia needed to stop. “Clint is up on a building with night vision goggles. Cap, Sam, and Wanda are securing the area. I have a motorcycle we can leave on. Clint says we're alone except for two people asleep on park benches.”

 

He nodded his approval. “How is Steve?”

 

“He's fine. He's worried about you.” You were done surveying the scene. “Let's go.” You both stayed to the shadows, making your way to where you'd parked your bike in the Northeast parking lot. The park was heavily wooded in this area, keeping you out of sight. When you got to the motorcycle, the Soldier climbed on, clearly intent on being the driver. You straddled the bike behind him, arms around his midsection. “There's a safe house in Trenton. Steve's the only one who knows I'm planning on going there. Unless you have another idea.”

 

He shook his head. “No. I've been only a few steps ahead of them. I managed to lose them yesterday, completely I think, but I'm not sure.” He started the vehicle, and sped out of the lot, entirely too fast, kicking up rocks and dirt as you rounded the corner out onto the road.

* * *

 

The safe house was just an apartment, in a very crime ridden area of Trenton, New Jersey. Third floor with roof and ground access by a fire escape. You'd taken a very roundabout way there, making sure that you weren't followed. It was nearly midnight when you arrived. You drew the key out of your backpack and let the both of you into a tiny foyer. There was a steel door beyond, with a keypad.

 

“This might be the safest safe house I've ever seen.” Bucky muttered, taking in the tiny room you were both crammed into. His broad shoulders nearly spanned the space.

 

“Yup.” You pressed a series of 12 numbers, and the door unlatched with an audible “click.” You stepped into the apartment. “It's not on any SHIELD database, before you ask. This was set up in the nineties by Howard Stark due to his paranoia, and Tony has kept it updated ever since.” You ignored Bucky's slight wince at hearing that you were in Howard Stark's safe house. You were pretty sure he'd killed Howard Stark. You led the way in, did a brief inspection to make sure you were truly alone, and pulled a small gadget out of your bag. You turned it on, scanning the rooms one by one. Bucky raised a brow at you as you stepped back into the entry. “It's not bugged.” You shut off the small device.

 

“Steve knows we're here?” Bucky removed the pistol he'd stolen from you from his waistband, setting it on the table.

 

“Yes, he does. I got a list of Tony's safe houses, and I might have made sure to reroute their information to my computer and not Stark Industries.” You shrugged. You opened your backpack. “I have weapons in here for you. I wasn't sure you would find any on your own. Where have you even been for the last three days?”

 

“At different hotels.” The Soldier sat down at the end of the couch.

 

“Your credit cards weren't used.”

 

“I've been keeping money in a safe deposit box. In a different bank. In case of this.” He was staring out into the room, towards a window covered in blackout curtains and reinforced with bulletproof glass.

 

“I should have figured.” You smiled. That was a trick you'd told him about back in Russia. You sat down beside him, leaving the weapons in your bag for the time being. “Do you know who's after you? I have Maria and Steve tracking down some leads, but we don't know much. Steve is finishing something up tonight and will be here in the morning with information. Hopefully.”

 

Bucky nodded. “I heard one of the men who ambushed me mention someone.” He turned to you, shifting his body on the sofa so that he was facing you. You moved as well, pulling your feet up in front of you and wrapping your arms around your knees. It didn't matter that you had your shoes on the cushions; no one ever used this house, judging by the layer of dust on everything. “You remember a man named Federov?”

 

You frowned. “Federov is dead, James. Remember? He died of cancer a few months before...” You trailed off. You weren't certain he remembered how you'd been separated. “In July of 2004. He died in July of 2004.”

 

“I don't remember when we ended, Natasha. And I know you don't want to tell me, but after this is over, you're going to have to.” He looked at you solemnly. Sensing your unease, he reached out a hand, settling it on your knee. “It doesn't matter what happened.”

 

You shifted your gaze towards his eyes, your heart in your throat. He knew you were hiding it from him. “It might.”

 

“It won't.” He shook his head, but then changed the subject. “Federov didn't die in 2004. He was dying, and Hydra took over his treatments.”

 

“Why would they do that? How was Federov an asset?” You weren't sure where this was going, but you were certain you wouldn't like it. Federov had been smart, and helpful, but he hadn't been brave. You couldn't see them turning him into a soldier like they had Bucky.

 

Bucky shrugged. “I don't know. I can't remember. But I do remember... he was one of my handlers. Usually it was Pierce, but when he had other things to do, it was Federov, I think.”

 

You felt chilled. You'd known Federov, you'd known him pretty well. You'd liked Federov. You'd been sad when he'd passed, so young, and with so much promise as a handler with the Black Widow Program. Part of you was glad to learn he hadn't died; the other part was angry that Hydra had him. The look on your face must have betrayed you, because Bucky was looking at you as though he wasn't sure whether he should touch you or not. Your days together before had been full of sacrifice and you'd found comfort with each other, but clearly things were different now and neither of you knew what to do or how to act. You stood, stepping to the window, drawing back the dark curtains and staring down at Trenton's skid row for a long time. When you turned, Bucky was still on the couch, his legs stretched out across the expanse of cushions. He was watching you, as he always had, and he was silent.

 

“So Hydra took Federov.” You shook your head. “They turn everything they touch into monsters.”

 

The Soldier looked crestfallen. “I'm not a monster, Natasha. I was, but I'm not anymore.”

 

You crossed the room, standing over him. “I didn't mean you.”

 

“Yes, you did. And you aren't wrong.”

 

“We're both monsters, Bucky. James.”

 

He reached up, arm around your waist, and pulled you down on top of him, facing him, sitting on his legs in the dim light of the safe house. His hands were in your hair, and he pressed an urgent kiss to your lips, almost as though it was the last thing he'd ever do. “Maybe. But you were my monster, darlin'.” You blushed, something you weren't used to doing, something you didn't do ever. He'd never used phrasing like that back when he was the Soldier; nothing had really ever come through from his pre-war days, and you assumed they'd had him on tons of drugs when he wasn't with you, drugs that he was free from now and free to remember. He smelled like cigarettes and leather and sweat, and a particular deodorant he happened to like from the drugstore; he smelled familiar and he smelled like home.

 

“I still am, James.” You closed your eyes and let the words out. You had been fighting it for so long, and you didn't know how it could ever work, but you owed it to yourself to try. He pressed another kiss to your mouth, and you felt him smile against you, pulling you down on the couch with him, hard, into his chest.

 

Continued in Part 11: Sacrifice


	11. Loose Lips Sink Ships

_9 August 2004, Moscow, Russia_

 

You stretched out on your bed, content on rolling back over and going to sleep in the early morning haze. You'd just gotten back the evening before, from a grueling two week assignment in China, which had given you plenty of nights to sneak in with one another, and plenty of mornings to wake up with your Soldier. But you'd found the marks, and killed them all, and now you were back in Moscow, with a few days off, in your bed, _alone_.

 

Your arrangement had worked for the both of you for a long time, but the more you were together, the longer you stole glances and moments, the more each of you knew that it wasn't enough. You'd been thinking about it, and you knew James had been thinking about it; _running_. Neither of you had brought it up yet, but it was an undercurrent of every conversation, every moment you spent in each others company. The life you lead now and the life you wanted to lead, together, could never mesh. A decision had to be made. You didn't even know if you could have a normal life, a functional relationship, an all the time romance. But you had to try. You weren't sure you'd be prepared; you didn't know where you would go or how you would hide so that Hydra nor Ivan would find you. You knew you could disappear, slip off to Indonesia or Latin America somewhere vanish; hiding the Soldier would be harder. Hydra was everywhere. It seemed like an impossible feat, so neither of you had brought it up yet.

 

For today, you were exhausted, contented with stretching your long limbs across the cool cotton sheets of your bed in your apartment, and doing what you rarely ever did; going back to sleep.

 

You were nearly there, relaxed and drifting off, when you heard boots on the stairwell outside, and your front door being pried from it's hinges and thrown to the side.

 

Your eyes flew open; simultaneously you rolled off of your bed, taking cover between your mattress and the wall, reaching for the gun you kept on your nightstand always at the ready. You pointed it at the door, but quickly lowered it. The Soldier appeared in the doorway, out of breath, a strained and somewhat frightened look on his face. His muscles were taut, on edge, and his jaw was clenched, his eyes wild. Your heart fell. _Nothing frightened James._ You'd seen him take bullets and nearly die without so much as a passing shade of fear marring his stoic features. But the look in his dark eyes, the look he gave you right now, it made your breath catch in your chest and your heart stop.

 

He looked at you, taking three long strides across the room, stepping up onto the bed and reaching down for you as you stood up from your makeshift cover. You joined him, pulled from the ground and standing in the middle of your mattress and your clean white sheets, not even noticing the boot marks he had put on them. “Natasha.” He let it out in a low, needy growl, under his breath. Goosebumps graced your arms, but not in the way James usually caused them to spring up on your flesh. This time it was dangerous.

 

“How.. why are you here?” Your eyebrows shot up on your forehead. You'd forgotten that he even knew where you lived; he'd never been here before. You recalled briefly driving past your building once, on the way back from a mission in the dead of night, and you telling him that you lived here, in Apartment 410. That had been so long ago.

 

“They're going to wipe me, Natasha.” He had one hand on each of your shoulders, holding you tight, his fingers digging into your flesh out of desperation, not passion. Your breath was knocked out of you. You had known, always known, that this day would come. Either out of naivete or denial, you had pushed it from your mind every time; and lately you'd begun to think that maybe, just maybe, you'd both be gone before it could happen. But you weren't. It was happening, and it was happening today. “We need to go. We need to leave. They know. _They know everything_.”

 

“How did you get away? What happened? _How do they know?_ ” You shrugged out of his grasp, handing him the gun you'd pulled from your bedside table and moving across the room with urgency, throwing open your closet door. You peeled off your nightshirt and dressed in record time, pulling on your boots as he answered.

 

“I don't know exactly, but today when I woke up they took me to the lab to update the software for my arm. Pierce came in. He told me that 'sometimes in the line of duty, men are vulnerable, they are weak, and make poor choices.' He told me that he didn't think of me as a man, but he 'had been forced to reconsider, due to certain things coming to light.' He told me that it had been tolerated for long enough, but that it was no longer useful for you and I to be paired up, and that Hydra and your Program were through.” James looked at you, his face still panic stricken. “ _They brought in the machine. It erases me. No matter what I forget,_ _I never forget that machine.”_ The look on his face was heartbreaking. This was a man so in control, death didn't scare him. But that machine did. _“_ They'd given me a sedative already, but... I panicked, and I fought, and... I killed everyone there. Except Pierce. He got away.”

 

“How did you get out though? Don't they have better security than that?” You were done dressing, flipping open a chest at the foot of your bed. It was filled to the brim with weapons.

 

“I got out. They have security, but they're all afraid of me. Everyone is afraid of me. I'm just a weapon.” He answered in a low voice. “We need to leave. We need to leave now. Or I do.” He took a deep breath, staring you in the eyes. “Will you come with me?”

 

You nodded. “Yes.” He reached out and took your hand. “I won't leave you. We'll get out. Today.” You dropped his hand, more pressing matters to deal with. “They'll check here. We need to hurry-” You stopped speaking as a canister broke your bedroom window. Bright light flashed through the room, and an ear splitting “BANG” erupted from the grenade. Your vision went white, and you lost your balance from the explosion and loss of sensory perception. James was affected the same way; he reached for you as he found himself on the floor. “They're here.” You spoke to him, but you couldn't hear a thing. The flash-bang had done it's job. You were having trouble hearing and seeing, vulnerability setting in.

 

You felt his body shielding yours, disoriented, as he pulled you with him, towards the case of weaponry at the foot of your bed. His body never left yours, despite his temporary blindness and deafness, covering you and leaving no shot available to anyone who may come in. He would get hit first. You felt the cold steel of a pistol pressed into your hand, your taser, followed by a knife. Just as you were beginning to regain your senses, another grenade came through the window. Another flash, and another bang, and the both of you were down again. Hydra knew they'd never take either of you unless they could weaken your defenses, and they were doing it spectacularly. You hazily caught a glimpse through the door of men dressed in SWAT gear, pouring into your living room from outside. James kicked the bedroom door closed. He turned to you. “I'm not letting you die.” You barely heard him, reading his lips as your sight came back to you. You cocked your gun with purpose.

 

“I'm not letting you die either.” The door was kicked down, and James stood, gun in each hand, letting a spray of bullets loose on the intruders. Several men went down, but more crowded into the room. Even more came crashing into the two windows; they had dropped down from the roof and broken the glass. Now they were on two sides of you. You leapt up onto the bed, legs out from underneath and a knife in the heart of the first, a punch to the face of the second and a swift gunshot to the head. The Soldier had run out of bullets, and was taking the Hydra soldiers down one by one, with his knife and with his fists. A look of primal rage covered his face; his ferocity would have been a thing to behold, if you both weren't about to die. There were too many, and neither of you had regained your senses completely yet; the ringing in your ears was intense. Another canister flew through the window, this one leaking pepper spray, followed by another flash bang, and then the room was filled with commandos in gas masks. You were throwing punches blindly, lashing out at anything that touched you, and so was James. He looked from you, to the window, and back to you. He picked up the chest at the foot board, hurling it at the men coming in the doorway; he turned, looped his flesh arm around your waist, and crashed out the window, grabbing the rope that had been abandoned by the slain intruders.

 

He slid down nearly all the way to the ground, his metal hand easily skimming the fibers; but as you looked down, you knew it was too late. In between the tears from your burning eyes and gasps from your burning lungs, you saw that the street was lined with soldiers, all of their guns pointing at you. You tightened your grip on your knife and took down two with your last two bullets. You realized no one was shooting back; they didn't want to kill him. They wanted their weapon back, to be wiped and stored until it needed to be brandished again. They weren't going to take him, not while you were alive.

 

James stopped you suddenly in mid air, his fist clenched around the cable. “Natasha. When we get to the ground, don't fight them.” He held you to his body tightly, whispering in your ear, his lips skimming your flesh. You could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, matching yours. The thud was rhythmic, and you tried to memorize it.

 

“What? No. We need to escape. I won't let them take you.” You were dead serious.

 

“They'll kill us both.”

 

“Then let them. Not without you.”

 

“I won't let them kill you.”

 

“James, no. It can't end this way.”

 

“It won't, Natasha. I'll remember you.” He smiled sadly. “ _You feel that heartbeat?_ ” You nodded. “ _I'll remember you. Always._ ”

 

Before you could argue, he'd loosened his grip on the rope and you both dropped to the ground, landing roughly. The men were on you in seconds. You felt yourself being ripped away, but you didn't fight. You did as the Soldier, _your Soldier_ , had asked. You didn't want to see him die. You couldn't see him die. He was right. _This was the only way._

 

Rough hands secured you, cuffing your wrists with zip ties, cutting into your flesh. James seemed to resign himself to his fate, letting them take him. His eyes stayed on yours, always on yours, as he was forced to back up, his hands yanked behind his back; as he submitted. At the last second, though, you saw him begin to throw the men off of him. “Natasha!” He cried out, a voice strangled from both adrenaline and desperation. It shot through you, making your stomach drop and your throat swell and your heart hurt worse than it ever had before. He tried to get to you, throwing men out of the way. Someone shot him with a tranquilizer dart; it didn't slow him down, not at first. He took a few steps towards you, falling at your feet. He looked up, his eyes getting heavy as they connected with yours, as another dart was shot into his back. “Natasha..” This one was only a whisper. “Natasha... I lo....”

 

He was out then, his eyes rolling back in his head, the dart pulled from his lower back and falling loosely from his gloved hand, the other limp on the ground as though it were reaching for you. The men dragged him away. You watched them load his body into a van, frozen as you had been since landing on the ground. You were numb. Through the crowd of armed men, you saw Ivan pull up in a sleek black Oldsmobile. He got out, surveyed the scene, and approached you.

 

“Uncuff my operative.” He ordered the man to your right. The man hesitated, then nodded, letting you go. Ivan scowled, then motioned to the car. “Get in, Romanova.”

 

You ducked into the vehicle, sliding across the leather seats, and Ivan followed, climbing in and shutting the door behind him. He gave the driver instructions to go back to the Black Widow Program HQ. You barely paid attention to the passing scenery; your mind was on what had just transpired. It left you cold, and empty. You were numb again, much as you had been before James had come into your life. Numb was easy, but you didn't want it. You were once again trapped in two worlds; half of you was crushed from what had just come to pass, the other half quickly working on how to get yourself out of this mess. _Easy_ , you thought. _I'm ruthless. Everyone knows that, no one more so than Ivan._

 

“Did you know Hydra was spying on us, Ivan?” You turned and faced him coolly. Ivan nodded, almost imperceptibly. “How long? Why wasn't I informed?”

 

“A few months. We were tipped off that something might be happening between the two of you after the hit in Berlin. A microphone was placed in the Soldier's prosthetic directly following.” Now it was his turn to regard you with an air of disdain and suspicion. “It was my call not to inform you.” He didn't answer your question.

 

“I had to keep him loyal, Ivan. If there was a better way to do it, please enlighten me.” You studied your nails, then faced him again, dark eyes flashing and all business. “I let him believe what he wanted to believe.”

 

Ivan smiled a slow grin, full of ill will, yet impressed all at once. “I know you didn't go soft, Romanova. You're the best in the Program, and I know we trained the heart out of you a long time ago. We should have been notified of the situation.”

 

“I run my missions as I see fit.” Your gaze was level. “I expect my apartment to be taken care of. I'm not going to be held liable for collateral damage from a rogue Hydra weapon.” You kept your voice low and expectations high. “He was a good asset. The upkeep was a chore, but the Soldier was invaluable to our progress.”

 

Ivan responded, but you weren't really listening. Guilt had washed over you, and you hadn't expected it to. It wasn't something you'd ever felt before, but it coursed through your veins like lava and overtook every inch of your being. You watched the city pass by through the window, the echo of James' final scream, and then his unfinished whisper, in your head. It would haunt you until the day you died.

 

_James had loved you._

 

You should have fought them. You shouldn't have just stood there. You should have done something.

 

_James was gone._

 

Continued in Part 12

 


End file.
